Two Guys and a Baby
by hat-and-goggles
Summary: "I thought you had a babysitter!" "I thought so too! But now she's off to Cambodia for half a year to rediscover herself after a particularly bad break up… I'm sorry, but you're really my only hope." Or, Crowley enlists an old friend to help him look after his boss' baby while she's away for two weeks, and learns a thing or two about himself and the other along the way.
1. Day 1 part 1

**Dramatis Personae:**

**Anthony "Anton"/"uncle Tony" Crowley**  
(An artist turned marketing assistant)

**Lucy Ferguson**  
(Crowley's boss, too perfect for this world)

**Adam Ferguson-Zabielski**  
(Son of Lucy, shatterer of eardrums, soiler of diapers. Like his mother, too perfect for this world)

**Anathema Device**  
(Crowley's niece, sassy teen)

**Ezra "Aziraphale" Fell**  
(Local bookshopkeeper, historical fiction author and former employee at a local daycare)

* * *

It was a nice, warm morning in the middle of March and life was good. Winter had come to an end, and spring was finally starting to set in. Young leaves and blooms were starting to grow in the trees and shrubs in the park across from Crowley's Mayfair apartment. It was so warm, in fact, that Anthony J "usually-so-cold-he-should-probably-get-himself-checked-out" Crowley ventured to work without his coat and with a pair of sunglasses perched on his nose, ever the optimist.

On his way to work, the marketing department at the global headquarters of a European multinational, he stopped by a coffee shop, greeted the barista, and ordered a latte for himself and for his boss before continuing on his way.

His boss, Lucy, had been a classmate of his in primary school. He had some fond memories of her. But after primary school, their friendship faded. Where Crowley failed classes left and right and was set back several years, Lucy flourished in school and exceeded every expectation. Where Crowley decided to go into the arts, Lucy studied marketing and management. And where Crowley lived alone with barely a social life to speak of, Lucy had a fiancé, a son and a seemingly endless stream of friends on top of her job.

How she did it, he had no idea. But he somehow ended up being her assistant.

"Mr. Crowley, so glad you decided to join us." Lucy flashed a devilish smile as she snatched one of the paper cups out of the carton the very second he came out of the elevator. Her caramel brown hair was done up in a neat bun, as per usual, and her black pantsuit looked stunning on her, as always.

"Good morning to you too, Lucy."

"Ms. Ferguson," Lucy corrected. "I know you mean well, but someone's gotta show these sharks who's boss. Besides, I don't go around calling you Anton, do I?"

"Yes ma'am," Crowley said. He mocked a salute as he followed her into her office.

'Anton' was what Lucy had called him upon their first meeting one fateful day in the schoolyard, and it stuck to him ever since. He couldn't blame another six year old for refusing to even try and pronounce 'Anthony'. Especially when the man himself spoke with a lisp back then.

"Anything I can do for you?" He asked before finally taking a sip of his coffee.

"Well, there is one thing…" Lucy— ms. Ferguson said. "It's not exactly work-related, but I'm not sure there's anyone else in the world I would trust with the task."

This piqued Crowley's attention. A single brow raised over the rims of the sunglasses he had 'forgotten' to take off.

"You know how… particular I can be with Adam's care, right?"

Oh, Crowley knew. The last year and nine months had been an Experience, so to speak. Every day, Lucy had regaled to Crowley the many things she read in books and on websites about parenting. Once the boy was finally there, she had laid down the law for everyone. Fiancés, grandparents, friends and babysitters alike. She was strict about it, but Adam seemed to be happy and healthy. But that was Lucy: strict, diligent, and always yielding the best results.

"Yes," Crowley tried simply, motioning for her to continue.

"I'm about to offer you two weeks out of the office. All expenses covered. On the condition that you look after Adam while Belle and I are on our vacation."

As if they had become sentient with a sense for comedic timing, Crowley's sunglasses slid down his nose.

"What?"

"Anton, please."

"I thought you had a babysitter!"

"I thought so too! But now she's off to Cambodia for half a year to rediscover herself after a particularly bad break up…" Lucy let herself fall into her office chair with an exasperated sigh. "I'm sorry, but you're really my only hope. Belle is so looking forward to this trip to Croatia, I don't want to have to tell her that we have to cancel."

Crowley thought it over for a second. Deep down, he knew he had already decided, but caring for his obscene amount of houseplants proved to be a challenge on its own. Was taking care of a human baby really a good idea?

Then again, this was Lucy. Surely she would provide clearer instructions to take care of Adam than the regular garden center would provide for a ficus. He pouted and bit the inside of his cheeks some more before finally speaking up.

"Okay, I'll do it," he mumbled.

"You're a lifesaver!" Lucy said as she clasped her hands together. "I'll pack a bag with everything he needs and print you some instructions. Our plane leaves at three, so if you could come pick up Adam at my place at around nine in the morning, that would be ideal."

"Yeah. Yeah, sure. I can do that," Crowley said as he tried not to imagine an instruction book the size of a George R. R. Martin novel, peppered with fine print, brightly coloured post-its and a footnote here and there. "Tomorrow at nine. Absolutely." He whipped out his phone to set his alarms accordingly with a quick note to 'PICK UP LUCY'S BABY'. Crowley was not used to having to be places at nine on a Saturday, but he liked to think he could do it with the right precautions.

"Again, I can't thank you enough for this.

"Hey, no, really, it's fine. You work really hard. You deserve a nice vacation."

Lucy smiled. "That's really sweet of you. So, the deeds of the day?"

"Oh! Right, deeds. There's some calls that came in after you left yesterday, I put a list of those on your desk and…"

* * *

It was Saturday, ten in the morning, and Crowley was sitting on a bench in the park across the street from his apartment. The sound of the children playing football behind him, using water bottles as improvised goalposts filled his ears. The pram containing Adam, who was covered in a reasonable amount of sunblock for the time of year, was parked securely next to him. He tried to relax and soak up some much needed sunshine, but instead he ground his teeth as he pondered for a while whether or not to also put his sunglasses on the toddler to shield his eyes.

Crowley noticed Lucy had packed the kid red and white striped pyjamas. He had briefly toyed with the idea of asking her whether or not he looked like the Goblin King to her, but quickly decided against it. He knew what Lucy was like when she was stressed, and joking about 80s movies in that situation would not have been the best idea.

He fidgeted with his fingers and ground his teeth some more. He didn't know the first thing about caring for a baby. He didn't know what the right temperature for a jar of mashed vegetables felt like. He didn't know how fast his patience might run out without a smoke every once in a while. He leaned his head backwards and let out an exasperated groan. Two weeks of not smoking. How had he ever agreed to this?

He gave Adam a quick glance to make sure he was entertained with his rattling teddy bear before getting out his phone, scroll through the letter A in his contacts and dial the expert.

"Hey Anathema, how are you doing?" Crowley asked, putting on his best customer service voice. He practically heard the teen's mood drop.

"Need me to help you hide another body, uncle Tony?" Anathema asked, all business. "Proverbially, of course."

"Not quite..." He said, slowly phasing the artificial sweetener out of his tone. Anathema had the best bullshit radar in the family and it must have been blaring at full power. "You still babysit, right?"

"What do you need a babysitter for?" Anathema pushed.

"Yesterday I promised my boss I would watch her baby while she's away for two weeks. And today I'm realizing I haven't the slightest idea what I'm doing."

"And now you want me to look after your boss' baby so you can take all the credit when she comes home?"

"If that's within the realm of possibility, yes."

"Uncle Tony, I have classes to go to and finals to study for. Why don't you ask that friend of yours you had a crush on? The one with the bookshop. Whatshisface. It's on the tip of my tongue."

Crowley winced when he came to the conclusion, "Ezra? I haven't talked to him in months."

"Well, you best start talking to him again. He said that before he had his bookshop, he had a job at a daycare."

"When did he tell you that?"

"When I was seven and you took me to the park by his shop every weekend so you could admire him from afar. This one time you finally built up the courage to take me into his shop with the promise of a new book, which you never got me by the way, you two got talking and he just casually dropped it into the conversation. But then again, you might have been so nervous it went right over your head."

"Yeah, that might have been it," Crowley admitted more to himself than to his niece. "I'll give him a call. You're my hero, Anathema."

"I know," the girl said. Crowley could hear the smug smirk on her face on the other end of the line. "You can call me for some quick advice, but please know that I'm going to be busy."

"Gotcha. I'll talk to you later then. Tell your mum I said hi."

"Will do. See ya."

"Right. See ya," and he ended the call. He went back into his contacts and scrolled down to the letter E. However, he was so preoccupied with his phone that he didn't notice something, or rather someone, leaning over the backrest of the bench.

"You called?" Ezra Fell, local bookshop keeper and historical non-fiction* author 'Aziraphale', asked with a satisfied smirk on his face.

(*This was a point of contention between Ezra and his literary agent. Where Ezra didn't feel comfortable calling his books historical "non-fiction". His novels were, after all, primarily based on vague records and nearly non-existent witness accounts. However, his agent insisted on the label, since, according to them, the very label itself would sell more copies.)

Crowley flinched, but didn't shriek. Not even a little bit. Not if you asked him, at least. "What are you doing here?!"

"Just feeding the ducks some old oats when I heard a familiar voice say my name, so I decided to investigate," the man said as he walked around the bench to sit down next to Crowley. "Did you know bread is actually really bad for ducks?"

"No," Crowley said simply, shifting uncomfortably in his seat.

"So, what about the baby? Did I miss something big?" Ezra asked as he tossed some oats to the ground. Ducks came rushing from the pond and Adam giggled at the sight of the waddling birds. "I mean, I'd assume you'd let me know if you had a baby, somehow."

"My boss took her fiancé on a vacation to Croatia, she's probably going to propose, so I'm looking after their son until they come home."

"Since when do you know anything about taking care of a baby?"

"I don't. I'm just generally very good at following her very particular instructions," Crowley said as he produced a stack of instructions from a bright blue diaper bag, roughly the size of The Fellowship Of The Ring. "That and she trusts me, I guess. I was actually hoping you could help me with these."

A small 'my goodness' escaped Ezra as he eyed the stack of loose pages. "That's all for him?" He asked, pointing at Adam.

"Look out, mister!" A young voice called from behind them, but Crowley paid it no mind.

"It is, trust me. It's—" Crowley bit his tongue as a football hit him in the back of the head, knocking his shades off his face and the pages out of his hand. As luck would have it, a breeze picked up, carrying the pages away from them and into the duck pond.

Adam giggled and clapped his tiny hands.

"Oh dear…"

"Fuck me…"


	2. Day 1 part 2

Crowley didn't need his instructions to know that Lucy would probably be opposed to 'leaving Adam unattended in a locked bookshop', but it was that or no instructions at all.

He all but groaned in frustration as he and Ezra used sticks and branches to fish the pages out of the duck pond from the side. There was no way Crowley would ruin his snakeskin boots for pages of which he knew the contents were unsalvageable. But Ezra insisted they not pollute the park more than it already was. He had a point, but that did nothing to brighten Crowley's mood.

"That'ss the lasssst one," he mumbled. His tongue was thick and uncomfortable in his mouth after he nearly bit off the tip, courtesy of a well-placed football to the cranium that put him back to square one with his speech impediment. "Can we pleasse go back to Adam now, before something happensss we both regret?"

"Yes," Ezra said as he plucked the final page from the stick in Crowley's hands. "I'll put these in the recycling." He gave the grocery bag they had collected the pages in a good pat. "By the way, how's your head?" He asked as they walked the short distance back to the shop.

"I haven't had any complaintss."

"I mean it, dear," the shorter man said, less than amused.

Crowley shook his head. 'Dear'? Did Ezra just call him 'dear'?

"I'm ssure I'll be fine," he mumbled as he glanced through the window of the bookshop. Adam, who was still strapped into his stroller, had decided this would have been a good moment to take a quick nap.

Ezra peered through now opened front door of the shop. "Oh, would you look at that. Isn't he precious?" he said as he held the door open for Crowley.

He really is, the man thought, but Ezra didn't allow him the opportunity to actually voice his reply.

"Let's see if I have any books to replace those instructions of yours," he said as he ran off into the shop, to the self-help and parenting section.

The bookshop was old. All creaky hardwood floorboards and sturdy oak bookshelves, contrasting creamy white walls that were lined with antique, dusty light fixtures. There were at least five flights of stairs behind the till that each led to a different section of books, as well as a modest apartment. Crowley knew self-help and parenting was on the second floor, so he unclasped the sleeping Adam from his seat, carefully cradled the boy against his chest, and went up the stairs.

"Find anything?" he asked.

Ezra turned around, holding a stack of books. Crowley stopped counting at five, but there were at least thrice as many of varying page counts.

"Well, yes. Each of these books has some truths and genuinely good advice in it, but there's no way one person can read all of this for two weeks of babysitting. Even marking the right pages with memos would take me days."

"Maybe it'ss time for the great 'Aziraphale' to write a book on child care then, isn't it? Compiling the good bits?"

Ezra pouted. "You know historical novels are more of my thing, Crowley. Besides, if I used that pen name, no one would take the book seriously."

"I was kidding," Crowley said. "But you do have experience with this kind of stuff, which is why I meant to call you in the first place. I was hoping you could jusst… help me out. You know?"

"Help you out?" Ezra repeated.

"I mean, if you don't mind."

"Well, if you don't mind seeing a lot more of me these next two weeks, I don't mind helping you out. But I really can't leave the shop alone for that long."

"That's okay. I'm sure Adam would love being here," Crowley said as he carefully ran his fingers through the boy's hair.

Ezra smiled at him. There was something about it that was unlike any other time Ezra had smiled at him before. There was a fondness in his smile. Crowley was in no way equipped to deal with this.

"You know, I never thought I'd see you doting on another human being like that," Ezra said, his soft gaze now cast at Adam, who made a face in his sleep.

"You should have seen me with my niece. Anathema was at least as cute as Adam when she was that age, and twice as demanding."

Ezra frowned, deep in thought.

"Now that you mention it, I do remember you coming in with a little girl every once in a while. I figured out she must have been a niece later. I could have sworn she was your daughter at first."

"Ez, I'm thirty-two. Isn't that a little young to have a seventeen year old daughter?"

Ezra raised his hands in self-defense. "Not judging."

"Okay, enough about how good I would look as a dad. I'm just glad you're willing to…" Crowley sniffed at the air. "What's that smell?" he asked only just before Adam woke and started wailing in his ear. "Jesus Christ!" he shrieked as he barely managed not to drop the boy.

"Oh, come here. He just needs a clean diaper," Ezra said as he took the crying baby from the man's arms and rocked the boy gently as he took him into the apartment.

Crowley, on the other hand, ran down to the diaper bag downstairs and carried the whole thing up. He was in no way equipped to deal with that, either.

* * *

It was around four in the afternoon by the time Ezra was feeding Adam. The boy was happily sat in Crowley's lap, who held an arm around him while he read through the manuscript of Aziraphale's next novel in his other hand as Ezra fed the child.

'The Nice And Accurate Vengeance Of Agnes Nutter, Witch'. Agnes Nutter. The name rung a vague bell with Crowley, but for the life of him, he couldn't put his finger on why.

"That's good, isn't it?" Ezra cooed as he wiped some mashed vegetable from Adam's cheek.

"Ez, I know you know you're a good writer, but would you not patronize me like that?" Crowley mumbled without looking up.

"I wasn't talking to you, dear. I was talking to Adam," he said as he offered Adam another spoonful. "But thank you. It's only the first draft though. It's nowhere near the quality it needs to be."

"You always were the better storyteller between us. I mean, I don't know how you do it. The dialogue, the visual descriptions… I can see it all in front of me. I can't believe people kept records of all this. Was there really a witch that wiped a complete village off the map?"

Ezra chuckled, he seemed amused by Crowley's curiosity. "Well, yes and no. Records of the Witchfinder Army showed that a woman accused of witchcraft was to be burned at the stake at 2 PM that day in 1655, while other records showed there was an explosion around that time in approximately that area that was heard as far away as Halifax. The following day, the WA goes back to the village to investigate only to find that rubble was all that remained, which was also recorded. The rest is more of an… 'educated guess'," he air quoted.

Crowley mocked a gasp. "Aziraphale? Using educated guesses to write his absolutely not fictional novel rather than researching even more dusty old records? Are you hearing this scandalous scoop, Mr. Adam?" He leaned down to look the boy in the eye. Adam giggled. When he looked back up at Ezra, the man didn't seem as amused.

"You know I'm not comfortable calling my books non-fiction. Also, might I remind you that all eyewitnesses to this event have been blown to smithereens?"

"I'm sorry. I was just kidding," Crowley said. This time, he really was. Sorry, at least. "I'll make it up to you, I promise," he thought for a minute before speaking up. "Anything you want done, I'll do for you," he spoke confidently. Oh no. Should have thought a little longer on that.

Ezra seemed to put a lot of thought into his answer; his brows knitted together tightly, a pout pulled at the man's features as he bit on his lip, but eventually the other man spoke up.

"Well, if you can really envision the story like that, it would only be a small effort to make a mock up for the cover, right? You always were the better artist between us, and I'm sure I can get my agent to get my publisher to pay you for your time."

Crowley was quiet for a second.

"Pardon?" He asked eventually. The greatest extent of art nowadays were quick sketches and storyboards to communicate Lucy's ideas for the shareholders and the marketing teams. To make the cover of a book was a whole other ballpark. Besides, he was offering a favour, and now Ezra was offering to get him paid in return? What even was this conversation at this point?

On the other hand, now that he was out of the office for two weeks to look after Adam, he had the time to figure it out. "Are you sure? I mean, where did you even get the idea?"

Ezra shrugged. "I found a picture of us at your graduation expo while I was doing my spring cleaning. You were good. Are good, I'm sure. Why you ever chose to become an assistant in a marketing department is beyond me."

"Cold, hard cash, Ez. A man's gotta live," Crowley stated simply. "Besides, I like working with Lucy," he said as he carded another hand through Adam's soft hair.

"Yes, but do you actually like your work?"

"Ezra, this isn't the time for me to start questioning my life choices. It isn't even five in the afternoon and I'm dead sober," he snapped, and frowned at the realization of what he'd just said. "But I'd love to make you a sketch or two for your book," Crowley said in an attempt to make it up to his friend.

"I'm glad you do," Ezra smiled. "Would you like to stay for dinner? I was planning on getting takeout."

"Yes. Absolutely."


	3. Day 2

It was Sunday, and incidentally it was also the first day in years that Crowley woke not from an alarm, but from the rays of sunlight that were cast through his bedroom window. After he had changed Adam into his striped pajamas and put him to sleep in his portable crib at eight in the evening last night, he himself had spent two more hours sketching at his drawing board before finally calling it a night as well. And so, he managed to wake up of natural causes, five minutes before his alarm was meant to go off.

A pair of gangly legs swung over the side of his bed, and Crowley sauntered into the living room to check on Adam, pulling on a pair of trousers along the way. The boy still slept peacefully, tightly clutching his a vaguely dog-shaped plush animal, which was simply named Dog, according to his mums. He gently poked one of the rosy cheeks and pondered briefly what could have become of him, had he found someone nice to settle down with and adopted a child for themselves. The thought only stung more with the realization that he had, in fact, found someone nice to settle down with, but was too much of a coward to admit it.

His eye fell on the freshly dusted-off drawing board that stood not too far away from the crib. A few sketches hung, taped to the surface, while others were crumpled up and strewn across the floor. Perhaps it had been too long, perhaps he had lost his touch. Perhaps he simply didn't know what to do with a historical non-fiction cover. He rather liked minimalism, Swiss graphic design and Bauhaus for their simplicity, but how could that suit an epic about a witch that blew up an entire town in the seventeenth century? He needed something a little more bombastic. Something he could hide more meaning in than was really necessary. Something—

Knocking at the door derailed his train of thought. Upon realizing that Adam was still sleeping, and Crowley quite liked the boy that way*, the man ran to the door to open it as fast as humanly possible. "Anathema? What are you doing here?"

(*Being low-maintenance and all...)

A single bushy, yet stylishly plucked eyebrow rose on the girl's face. "Just checking if the kid made it through the night."

Crowley sighed and stepped aside to let her in. "I'll have you know, he's sleeping like a… baby," he supplied when no sufficient metaphor came to mind.

Anathema crossed the room to peer over the edge of the crib. "Oh, he's the cutest!" She whispered. "He reminds me of the babe, you know?"

"What babe?"

"The babe with the power," Anathema smirked.

"No. And by the way, I'd appreciate it if you didn't wake him up. I was trying to do some thinking."

"Thinking or overthinking?" Anathema asked carefully. The girl knew him too well for her own good.

"Thinking," Crowley insisted. "Ezra asked me to make him a proposal."

Anathema visibly perked up.

"For his next book cover."

And she immediately deflated again.

"I mean it, Anathema."

Anathema scooped Adam out of his crib and walked over to the drawing board, holding him ever so gently.

"'The Nice And Accurate Vengeance Of Agnes Nutter, Witch'?" She read aloud.

"That's the title," Crowley nodded. "I don't know why, but that name rings a bell. Like I've heard it before."

His niece looked up at him.

"That's because you have," she said as she planted Adam back in her uncle's arms and started for the flat's door. "Call Ezra, tell him I've got something that'll make him go weak at the knees when he gets his hands on it. I'll meet you guys at the bookshop later today," she said with absolute certainty.

"Where are you going?" He asked.

"Home. I have to beg to mum to let me take something out of the house."

* * *

"So, do you have any idea what Anathema wanted to show me?" Ezra asked from above, standing on a ladder to dust off the tops of his shelves. It was just the three of them. The bookshop was closed, and the two of them had just split a bánh mì between themselves as their lunch.

"Not in the slightest," Crowley said. He was sat in the windowsill beside bookshop's door with Adam in his lap, who held and drank his bottle of formula on his own. Adam was a very capable boy for his age, Crowley noted.

There was a loud ringing as a certain teenager stormed through the shop's front door with a gigantic grocery bag, despite the 'closed' sign being up.

"We're closed," Ezra droned on auto-pilot.

"Hi Anathema."

"Hi Ezra, hi uncle Tony."

The shopkeeper turned to look at the new visitor and smiled before he confidently let himself slide down the ladder.

"My, how you've grown up, miss Device," Ezra beamed. "How long has it been since you first came here? Nine years?"

"Ten, actually," Anathema said. "Uncle Tony still owes me that book he never bought me because you two were too busy talking."

"Does she always hold grudges like this?" Ezra turned to Crowley, who simply said

"Yes."

"Remind me to never get on her bad side."

Meanwhile, Anathema hoisted the grocery bag onto the counter and produced a thick binder. Crowley recognized it as a genealogy project she had put together for school several years earlier.

They both watched in suspense as she scanned the meticulous index before she leafed through, looking for a very specific page.

"It probably won't come as a surprise when I say that uncle Tony and I come from a long line of witches and heretics."

Ezra shot Crowley an amused look. Crowley blushed. No. Ezra didn't seem surprised at all.

"At some point, I'm pretty sure the Illuminati and the Freemasons got involved as well, but without hard evidence I wasn't allowed to include it."

"The point, Anathema," Crowley urged as he willed the redness from his face.

"Right, the point is," Anathema said as she opened the binder, pulled a page from it and held it out to Ezra. "Agnes Nutter is an ancestor of ours."

Ezra turned as white as a sheet, the author took the page from her and read it over. And again. And again. Everything checked out. From the name to the family relations to the date and the cause of death.

"I can't believe my eyes..." He said breathlessly.

Anathema took the office chair from behind the till and put it behind Ezra.

"You're going to want to sit down for this one," she said.

And he did.

"Because here's the kicker. Agnes wasn't just a witch. She was a prophetess. She had visions of the future and knew she would one day be burned at the stake." Anathema said as she shoved the binder aside and went back to rummaging in the bag. "So, the day before she knew she was to be burned, she sent her most prized possession to her son-in-law's farm a few towns away." The girl pulled something from the bag. It was dark and large, and judging from Anathema's face, it was heavy, too.

"It can't be..." Ezra gasped.

"Oh, but it is," Anathema grinned. "A book containing Agnes Nutter's spells, visions and memoirs. All handwritten in old-timey English. It was a heirloom granny Ashtoreth left to me when she found out about my fascination with magic and stuff."

"Dear, did you know any of this?" Ezra asked as he spun his chair around to face the other man. The look of curiosity and genuine excitement on his face did something to Crowley's heart that he would never admit to another living person.

"Again, I had no idea," he said, holding up his free hand in self-defense. "Except for Anathema's childhood obsession with magic. She made sure everyone knew about that."

"Granny said the book was meant for my eyes only, but I'm giving you special permission to use it in your research." Anathema smiled proudly.

Ezra stood from his chair and walked over. He snatched a pair of cotton gloves from behind the counter and carefully started to leaf through it.

"Anathema, this is exactly what I needed. This is going to fill in so much, I… I don't know how to thank you for this."

"No need to thank me," she said casually as she stepped around the counter. "Just promise to be careful with it and give it back when you're done with your book."

Without another word, Ezra pulled the girl into what looked like a bone-crushing hug while Anathema giggled and patted his back.

"Well, thank you anyway. Have a look around, you can take home any one book you like. You deserve it."

"I think I will!" Anathema said, clasping her hands together in excitement before shooting her uncle another glare. "That doesn't mean you're off the hook, by the way."

With a pout, Crowley wiggled his wallet out of his back pocket.

"Fine, pick out a second book while you're at it."

* * *

A few hours later, while Adam napped on the sofa in Ezra's apartment, Crowley sat at the desk in the back room, next to the shopkeeper himself, who did his taxes. He rubbed at his forehead in an attempt to remedy an oncoming headache as he scribbled in his sketchbook in the dim, orange light of a single light bulb that hung overhead.

"That was exciting, wasn't it?" Ezra asked. He still had that blissful smile on his face, and Crowley knew it wasn't going away any time soon.

"Yeah," Crowley muttered sarcastically, "nothing more exciting than finding out that you descended from a medieval witch annex prophetess that blew up an entire village and all the people in it."

"Come now, dear, it's quite alright," Ezra said as he placed a hand on Crowley's shoulder and squeezed in reassurance. "I mean, it happened three hundred years ago. It's not like anyone could come after you."

A chill ran down his spine from the touch alone. He wanted to tell the other that no, that was exactly the point, Ezra, people died, but he wasn't about to have that conversation. He shook his head to chase the thoughts away. Instead, his mind drifted to how he lucked out with his last name, though. After all, my name is Anthony, but you may call me Crowley, sounded infinitely cooler than my name is Anthony Nutter. Or 'Device', for that matter. Enough people called him a 'nutjob' or a 'tool' as it was.

"How is your drawing coming along?" Ezra asked without looking up from his laptop.

Finally. Something Crowley could technically say something intelligent about.

"Not as well as I hoped it would. I just don't know where to start. Nothing I come up with seems to suit the theme."

"Well… Maybe just give it time. You're good. I'm absolutely positive you can do it."

Crowley smiled. "Glad one of us has that kind of faith in me."


	4. Day 3 part 1

It was 10 o'clock on the next Monday morning and all of Ezra's talk of albums, old photos and Crowley's art the other day, had the man sifting through his own archive. Somewhere, there had to be something, any old work that has some spark of greatness in it. Some shard of his former self that would inspire him. That, or something he could blatantly plagiarize from his former self. That would be fine as well. As he scanned the pages, his eye fell on a photo Anathema had given him.

He remembered the day it was taken very well. Anathema had been nine years old and there was a career fair at her school. Her mother had been too busy with her job at the bank to give a presentation herself, and so Crowley, the only positive male role model left in the young girl's life, had been put to the task. It had been taken in the morning. It must have been, Crowley was still smiling, because that day had been the day he had learned just how terrible children can be…

"I don't know," a boy from Anathema's class had said. "Isn't art supposed to look like something?"

"Well, in a way, yes," Crowley had said, as he frantically dug through his mind to find an answer that would be satisfactory to two dozen nine to ten year olds. "Sometimes art can look like things we can see, but sometimes art can look like the way the artist feels."

"I bet you felt real ugly when you made this one. It's rubbish," another boy at the back had joked. All of the children laughed except for Anathema, who buried her face in her hands. Crowley never wanted to stand in front of a class ever again.

"Besides, you're probably a—"

That day had also been the day Anathema had learned the _other _F-word.

A few hours later, the two of them had sat in Anathema's mother's kitchen, waiting for her to come home.

The girl kicked her feet from where she sat on her chair, her chin rested in her hands as she looked at her uncle.

"I don't get it. They're usually not that mean," she mumbled.

"Yes, well, art has a long history of going underappreciated by the masses," Crowley said casually. He didn't lift his eyes from his sketchpad, nor did he look over the rims of his sunglasses. Partly because he wanted to make sure Anathema's portrait looked good*, partly because he didn't want the girl to see his eyes water.

_(*It wasn't like he had anything to prove. Especially not to himself.)_

"I meant to you. Personally," Anathema said sternly as she folded her arms over each other.

Crowley had been quiet for a moment, searching his mind again for the right words as he let his frustrations out as he translated the mass of curls on Anathema's head onto the page. "Some people just don't like things that are strange to them. Sometimes it's because we're artists, sometimes it's because we're boys who fall in love with boys, and they say that sort of thing to hurt us."

"No one had to go and say that! Besides, boys are really mean, I don't see how you can fall in love with them," she huffed. "I mean, except for you and the bookshop man. You two are acceptable."

There was an insinuation there that Crowley had chosen to ignore. "Anathema, you really are too wise for your age."

She always had been. Still was.

Just like people had always been unappreciative of arts, and always would be.

Inspiration be damned, spite had always been the best motivator for Crowley to do, well, anything. And so, before 11, an easel with a canvas was set up in the living room along with a palette and oil paints, the floor, plants and furniture were all covered in tarps, while Adam was parked on the floor wearing his pajamas from last night with a scrap of old wall paper and a set of finger paints in front of him.

Crowley had finished his sketch before he turned around to see how Adam was doing. The boy still stared at the paints and the wall paper, unsure of what to do with it. With a smile on his face, the man crouched down, dipped his fine oil paint brush in the fingerpaint and dragged it across the paper in hopes of provoking the boy. "You can do it, Adam," he encouraged.

Adam, in turn, raised a tiny hand, dipped it into the red paint and slapped it onto the paper. He giggled again.

"There we go. Have fun, buddy." He ruffled the boy's hair as he got back up and turned his attention to his own canvas, putting the base colours in place.

Once noon rolled around and it was time for Adam to eat his snack, Crowley turned back to where the boy had been sitting a little over an hour ago. 'Had been', being the key phrase, as the boy was nowhere in sight.

"Adam?" Crowley called as he walked around his black, leather chair. The tarps had small, brightly coloured smudges scattered over them. He heard the laughter of the small boy come from behind the sofa, and the closer Crowley came, the more colour drained from his face.

"Adam! My walls!" He cried. Pristine, white plaster was now covered in red and yellow handprints.

Adam turned to the man and gave him a satisfied smile.

* * *

"My walls look like a Jackson Pollock," Crowley whined as he took a long drag from his cigarette for dramatic effect, outside, leaning against the doorpost of the bookshop. The door of which was wide open, exposing both Ezra and Adam to his complaints. Lucy had explicitly forbidden him to smoke around Adam, but he needed this, dammit. He tried his best to look angry at Adam, who was still strapped into his stroller and was very much unaffected by the man's pathetic attempt at discipline. With a huff, he put out the remaining half of his cigarette against the outside wall of the bookshop and shoved it back into the pack before going back inside. "Just like your mum. No one can stay mad at that pretty face of yours."

"Well, I'm sure the painters were glad the tarps were already there," Ezra said as he sipped from his hot cocoa from where he stood behind the counter. Sure, it was lunch time, but customers had a tendency to always show up at the least opportune moments. If they showed up at all.

Crowley, on the other hand, begrudgingly fed Adam his lunch. "I guess… I'm sure they won't give me a discount for it, though."

"What got you painting anyway?" Ezra asked. "I thought you were still in the process of sketching."

"I am. But a bunch of nine year olds were mean to me once so I painted out of spite," he stated simply.

Ezra choked on his cocoa. "_What_?"

It was quiet for a moment before Crowley decided it would probably be a good idea to elaborate. "It was for the career fair for Anathema's class and my sister was too busy, so I went and gave a presentation in her place. But then a kid said my painting looked like nothing and another said it was rubbish and then another called me the F-word, so I almost cried in front of a class full of pre-teens," he said flippantly, though could almost start crying from embarrassment again. If only he'd never mentioned the painting in the first place.

"Well, children can be quite vicious," Ezra concluded. "Though I'd have to say, a ten year old calling a grown adult a 'fucker' in the middle of a classroom sounds quite outrageous."

Crowley almost laughed. Had his mood not been this sour, he probably would have. In the ten years he had known Ezra, he had never heard the man swear. Not even so much as an 'oh gosh dangit'. 'Fucker', on the other hand sounded alien coming from his mouth.

"The other F-word, Ez," he said. "Six letters. Your witch was burned on them. Can't miss it." The tone he tried to assume was casual, but heartbreak was oozing through the cracks.

"Oh dear. That's painful," the other man mumbled.

Crowley cast his glance down at Adam, who stared up at him with his big, blue eyes. "That was the very first time I saw Anathema look at me with pity, and all I knew was that I never wanted that to happen ever again. So I went and got my job as a P.A. for a big multinational's marketing director who would one day give me a baby to look after. And that's my tragic Batman villain backstory," he all but sighed.

An uneasy silence fell over the two of them. Over the years, Crowley had gotten used to putting on an air of confidence around colleagues, family and what few friends he had. He wasn't used to putting himself into a vulnerable position like this. He didn't look at Ezra, because he knew the other man would look at him the same way Anathema had all those years ago.

"I can't believe it. That happened eight years ago and this is the first I hear about it? Even after I asked why you got your job?"

Crowley didn't need to look at Ezra's face to hear the frown on it. He inevitably grew irritable.

"I don't particularly enjoy talking about it, you know. I knew that if I told you, you would look at me the way you're looking at me now. We can't all follow our dreams, Ez. I'm perfectly happy doing the work I do with the people I work with, even if that means I have less time for my creative ventures."

A shorter, yet more uneasy silence fell over them. Adam looked from one man to the other as he nibbled on his dry cracker.

"What did you paint to spite a bunch of nine year olds?" Ezra asked, breaking the silence.

"Nothing. It looked like shit anyway so I asked the painters to paint over it," Crowley lied, casually waving his hand.

"My dear, please—"

"Did you get anything interesting from the grimoire? Memoire. Whatever," he asked, verbally grabbing the subject by the shoulders, forcefully turning it around a full 180 degrees and pressing on against his better judgement.

Ezra frowned. He was very… _empathic_. Anyone who had been with Ezra for longer than five minutes knew that. He tended to be much more in tune with people's feelings than the people experiencing said feelings in the first place.

And here Crowley was, frantically running back and forth between hiding a wall to hide his feelings behind and letting them out by means of molotov cocktail. But for whatever reason, the Ezra seemed to have given up. And Crowley felt infinitely worse about himself.

"Well, I have to say it will be very useful. I'll probably have to take the story in a different direction to make it more accurate, but you know I like a good challenge," Ezra said, forcing a smile. It wasn't nearly as striking or beautiful as his genuine smiles. It didn't fill him with warmth and joy. It just hurt.

"I'm sorry," Crowley said. "I shouldn't have gone off like that."

"You definitely should have," Ezra insisted. "Talking about your feelings might hurt at first, but it's definitely better for you in the long run."

Crowley rolled his eyes but there was no malice. "You really are too good for this world, angel." It took him a second to realize what had just come out of his mouth.

"I'm sorry, but did you just call me 'angel'?"

Why. Why on God's green Earth had he said that? He'd been all over the place for the entire day, and now he had to come up with an excuse.

"Anthony, are you alright?" Ezra asked sternly.

"No. I mean, yes. I mean, you've been calling me 'dear' since Saturday, so I would think a nickname for you would only be fair."

"Uhuh…" escaped Ezra. Whatever happened, Crowley didn't want to acknowledge that the man's soft cheeks had grown slightly pinker. Stubbornly, he pinned it down to their natural rosiness.

Still, he choked on the breath he was taking. He cleared his throat and got up. He couldn't deal with this. Not right now. He had to clear his head. A brisk walk would do it, he figured, away from the shop as fast as his legs would carry him.

"Well, I think the painters are probably just about done and Adam here is in desperate need for a bath. Paint in his hair and ears, you know. I should go," Crowley pressed on as he got up and took the bag of crackers from the tray in front of Adam. It was still half full and the boy made an uneasy sound when the food of him disappeared into the diaper bag.

"Crowley, dear, I—"

"I'll see you again tomorrow."


	5. Day 3 part 2

It was half an hour past Adam's bedtime and Crowley had just picked his palette back up when someone knocked on his door again. He sighed and put it back down, stalked to the door, yanked it open and said:

"Whatever you're selling, I don't want it."

"Good evening to you too," said Ezra who, in his vintage jumper, vintage shirt… vintage everything looked extremely out of place in the sterile white hallway of the modern apartment building.

Crowley bumped his forehead against the doorframe in frustration. Ideally, he would have gone for slamming, but he knew the other wouldn't approve.

"I'm sorry. I don't know what's wrong with me today," he mumbled. He hadn't meant to sound so desperate, but his mind was so overflowing with thoughts that raced too fast for him to grasp them, it might as well have been empty. It had bothered him all day.

Ezra just smiled his usual gentle smile. "It's okay, we all have off-days sometimes," he said. "If it's any consolation to you, I brought you this." He held up a bottle of wine that had a thin yet persistent layer of dust on it. He must have had it for a while.

Crowley carefully took the bottle and examined the label as he stepped aside to let the other in, only to come to the conclusion he had no idea what the words on the bottle actually meant. "As long as it doesn't taste like cork or vinegar, I'm sure it'll be fine." After all, years old wine wasn't the worst thing Crowley had drank. "I'll get some glasses and a corkscrew. You make yourself at home in the meantime."

Once in the kitchen, Crowley smacked his head against the cabinet a little harder. What on Earth was Ezra doing here? Better yet, why hadn't Crowley just sent him away?

Then again, there was no use dwelling on it now. And who knew, a little alcohol might actually slow his thoughts down enough to firmly grasp one by the balls and demand to know what it wanted from him.

With newfound resolution, he took two wine glasses from the cabinet, produced a corkscrew from the drawer under his pristine cooktop and returned to the living room.

"Sorry I took so long, I usually get the bottles with the screw—"

Crowley stopped dead in his tracks when he found Ezra standing at his drawing board, smoothing down the crumpled and discarded sketches with gentle hands and glancing at the canvas on the easel next to it. He heard the man murmur to himself, but didn't catch a single word of it. What did catch his attention were his eyes. Striking blue, creased with fondness, but still sparkling with youth. He knew Ezra was a little older than him, but it never made him any less charming.

He realized a little too late he was staring. Ezra turned to him and smiled.

"Ah, sorry my dear, I was just admiring your handiwork," he said, beaming more brightly at Crowley than he had all day. He considered putting his sunglasses back on.

"Oh, that? That's nowhere near where I want it to be," Crowley scoffed in a weak attempt to play it cool.

"That's okay. There's more than enough time to figure it out."

"If you say so," Crowley mumbled, yet he couldn't help the smile creeping to his face. He picked the bottle of wine from the glass salon table, twisted the corkscrew into the cork and pulled. And pulled. And pulled…

Ezra chuckled. "Here, let me help you," he offered and reached to take the bottle, brushing against his hand.

Crowley dropped it, Ezra caught it.

"See, the trick is that you need to twist the cork while you pull it out," he said as he did just that, pulling out the cork with a satisfying pop. "There we go. Now, I believe you were holding some glasses?"

"What? Oh, right," Crowley stammered as he tried to regain his composure. He held out the glasses and Ezra poured. And poured. And poured…

"Are you sure you know how this works?" He dared to venture when the wine was nearing the rim of the glass. Ezra stopped pouring with one millimeter to go.

"I do. I just figured you could use it," Ezra shrugged as he poured himself the normal amount.

"I was that much of a mess, wasn't I?" Crowley asked before carefully slurping some wine from the top of his glass. It tasted like what he imagined a mouldy gym sock to taste like, but still, he persisted. It wasn't so bad once you got used to it.

"If I'm completely honest, you still look like a mess."

"Of course I do."

"I don't care that you do. And I don't know what all that in the bookshop was about and I can imagine that you absolutely won't feel like it, but if you want, you can always talk to me."

Crowley groaned. What he had said and done in the bookshop was the last thing he wanted to think about right now. He placed his wine on the table and sat down on his white leather couch, his back hunched slightly.

Ezra followed suit.

"These last few days, I've been thinking a lot. There are things in my life that you've made me reconsider and I just don't know how to cope," he admitted, masterfully dancing around Ezra's quest for answers. Crowley gazed up, and Ezra seemed to be taken aback.

"I'm sorry dear, but I'm afraid you're giving me too much credit."

An exasperated laugh escaped Crowley's throat and he took another swig from his wine. It seemed to taste better this time around, but then again, perhaps that was only because it was starting to work.

"I'm really not. You were right about my job. I'm actually glad to be out of the office for a while. Lucy seems to be the only redeeming factor. My work is boring, and Hastings and Liggett, the head of studios and head creative, they make my life a living Hell at every chance they get. It gives me security, but it drains me. And it certainly doesn't make me happy…"

Ezra reached and took his hand. It was soft and warm. Hot, even. And yet, Crowley didn't recoil. In fact, he squeezed back.

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to make you feel this way," he whispered.

"No, it's… It's okay. I needed that wake-up call, I think. I mean, now that I'm drawing and painting and having fun again, I'm actually realizing how shit my job is," Crowley smiled, but it quickly faltered. "Except if I were to quit I would have to figure out how to make a viable income from my art."

Ezra raised his hand to make a suggestion.

"Drawing portraits in the park for tourists is an absolute last resort," Crowley insisted.

And Ezra immediately lowered his hand again.

"I appreciate it, though. And you in general, you know." He took another swig from his wine for courage. "You," he started, "are very…"

A little voice in his voice in his mind that, had this been a cartoon and not real life, would have manifested as a tiny angel on his right shoulder, shouted as it worked itself into a panic and hid its face into the collar of his shirt.

Oh, God, Crowley, what were you thinking?! You literally just reconnected with him two days ago, shut uuuuuuup!

Another little voice in his mind that, had this been a cartoon and not real life, would have manifested as a tiny devil on his left shoulder shouted kicking, screaming and pulling at his hair.

Just fucking say it you fucking coward, you started this, now with God as my witness, you're going to finish it!

"Persuasive?" Crowley tried.

Ezra quirked an eyebrow.

Wrong word. Try again.

"Learned?"

He frowned.

Fuck. Third time's the charm.

"Wise," Crowley finally settled on.

Ezra smiled. "Thanks, but I'm not that much older or smarter than you."

"Since when does that matter?"

Ezra shrugged. "They say wisdom comes with age."

"As do wrinkles, but you still look like one of those, whatchamacallit…" Crowley wracked his mind for his hungover art history lessons. "Cherubs, was it?"

"That's what I get for not smoking," Ezra smirked.

Crowley placed a hand over his heart in mock offense. "You're too harsh, angel."

"There it is again. Are you planning to keep calling me that?" Ezra asked. Nothing in his tone remotely suggested any objection to this.

"Is that a challenge, angel?" the taller man teased again, leaning closer.

Ezra, on the other hand, leaned backwards. "What are you trying to do here, Crowley?"

There was a pause. Crowley's breath caught in his throat. The realization that he had no idea what he was trying to do hit him like a brick wall.

Well.

Of course he knew what he was trying to do. He was trying to have a nice evening with a good friend whom he also had a crush on. Why was that so hard?

"I'm sorry," Crowley said as he pulled himself back. "Just, kinda… I don't know…" He glanced away. He couldn't bear to look at Ezra any longer. It was like the angel on his shoulder said, they had just started to reconnect, and now Crowley was going too far too fast. "Forget I ever said anything, I guess."

Ezra laid a sympathetic hand on Crowley's back and rubbed firmly between his shoulder blades. "I'm sorry, I shouldn't have come uninvited. You made it quite clear that you needed space and I didn't respect that…" he said as he gave Crowley's back another pat. However, upon likely realizing the irony of the situation, he quickly removed his hand and scooted further away on the sofa. "I should go. You can keep the wine. Consider it a gift."

Crowley didn't move an inch as Ezra got up and made his way back to the door. He only buried his face in his hands with a deep sigh.

"Until tomorrow." he heard Ezra mumble before the door clicked shut.

He'd fucked up.


	6. Day 4

It had been just like the last time. Him and Anthony. Alone. Well. Alone-ish. The booth in that bar two years ago wasn't entirely what one would call 'alone', but it was alone enough. Anyway. Him and Anthony. Alone. A bottle of wine split between them. It had been dark. The only light between them had been the flickering of a candle. Anthony had leaned in close, then, but so had he. Back then, he couldn't help the feeling that something was off. Something was wrong. They had both been intoxicated. To make a move would have been taking advantage. He had done the right thing, then. He'd gotten up, paid the tab and went home.

And then there had been two years of radio silence.

He frowned as his pen scribbled across the page of his journal, rubbing his free hand over his face. He was sitting comfortably on his bed in his comfortable flannel pajamas, but he felt everything but comfortable. Had it really been the right thing to do, though? To leave Anthony alone in his obviously troubled state? To not lean in and close the gap? After all, this had been the second time it happened. Clearly _some _part of Anthony wanted it.

God knew _he _wanted it.

He wanted to work together with Anthony, because with him, he felt invincible. Wanted to settle down with Anthony ever since he showed up at the park just outside his bookshop with little Anathema on his arm, and again with little Adam in his stroller. He wanted to bury his fingers in Anthony's hair, take those silly sunglasses off his face, look deeply into his amber eyes and kiss him until he was breathless.

If only Anthony wanted the same.

Ezra snapped the journal shut and shoved it under his pillow, wrapped himself up in his blanket. He curled up into a tight ball and squeezed his eyes shut in hopes of sleep washing over him.

Tomorrow, everything would be better.

* * *

Ezra had slumped down the stairs and into the shop early in the morning the next day. He hadn't slept well. He had barely slept at all. He'd been too worried about Adam and Anthony. And, perhaps, worried about Anthony in more than one way. The red light of the dawn the bookshop bathed in seemed to set it aflame. He rubbed his eyes and made a beeline for the magazine section he kept on the ground floor of the shop.

**'10 signs that he's into you,'** the cover of the magazine he was reaching for read. Was he really desperate enough to ask advice from a teen magazine? Well, as it was, yes. Ezra didn't have that many friends, and the internet was something he wasn't quite ready to explore just yet. Besides, there was nothing wrong with just checking, right?

He took a seat behind the counter of the shop and leafed through to the article. Alright, top of the list.

**1\. He reaches out first.**

Well, that had been correct, wasn't it? Anthony had needed his help with Adam, so that made sense. Though, it hadn't been for himself, right? It had been for Adam's sake. Ezra decided it didn't count. For now.

**2\. He always seems happy around you.**

That wasn't quite right either. Whenever Anthony was around his nowadays he seemed… nervous, sometimes. Grumpy, other times, but even more reserved. And then there was whatever the heck yesterday was.

The bell over the bookshop's door jingled.

"W-we're closed!" Ezra stammered as he rushed to hide the magazine behind the counter.

"Ezra! Is that any way to greet a potential customer?" the man entering the shop said with a jolly tone in his voice.

"Gabriel!" The magazine flopped to the floor. "What are you doing here?"

"Well," Gabriel started as he made his way up to the counter. "I was going to meet up with a contact at a major publisher to discuss your book over a bagel and a cup of coffee, but I realized I left my copy of your first draft at home. So, since I was in the area anyway, I figured I'd swing by and ask if I can borrow your copy, maybe?"

Ezra squinted up at the impossibly tall American man, but got up and made his way up to his apartment nonetheless.

"Nice place you got here." Gabriel noted flatly. "Real quaint." Footsteps echoed across the empty shop, up to the apartment above where Ezra searched for his first draft, as his agent went behind the counter.

"Thanks," Ezra said with a flatness to his tone to rival Gabriel's.

"Oh, what's this? '**10 signs that he's into you'**?"

Ezra nearly dropped his draft once he had it. "It's nothing!" he called nervously down the stairs, before making his way back to the ground floor.

"Well, unless you suddenly hired yourself a cashier, I'd guess you were the one reading this garbage. Or are you about to tell me there's some kind of top-grade journalism going into the production of a glossy teen magazine?"

"Surely, a lot more work goes into producing a glossy teen magazine than either of us think, but I swear, it's nothing." Ezra said as he snatched the magazine from Gabriel's fingers and quickly replaced it with his first draft.

"If you say so, buddy," Gabriel patted Ezra's head before making his way back to the door.

So patronizing. He ought to say something. "Gabriel!" he called. But when the man turned around to face him, all traces of fierceness left the author. Ezra painfully remembered that he needed his help. "There's something I need to ask you."

The man rolled up the stack of paper, stuck it under his arm and folded his arms over each other. "If you're going to invite me on a date, I'm sorry, but I don't do that kind of thing with clients. Of either sex."

"That's not what I— Look, I just wanted to ask you if maybe I could pick the artist for the cover for the book. I have this friend who's a fantastic painter, and he already said he'd be interested."

Gabriel rolled his eyes. "First, let me try to get through to the publisher, then we'll talk artists."

"Oh, alright then…" Ezra stammered. "I just thought it might be nice since he's a direct descendant Agnes'."

A single eyebrow raised on the tall man's face.

"The witch the book is about. His niece actually gave me a treasure trove of information I can use to make the book more accurate."

"You know what, Ezra. I'll see what I can do for you," Gabriel said with a chuckle, turning to leave again. "Oh, and a quick word of advice: if the guy you think is into you won't take the initiative, maybe _you _should give it a shot. Pining is all fun and games in romance novels, but in real life, it's painful to watch."

The bell over the bookshop's door jingled as it clicked shut and Gabriel started on his way.

_Pining_? He wasn't _pining_. Ezra Fell hadn't _pined _for anyone since secondary school, had he? He and Anthony simply felt comfortable with one another when their lives happened to slot together, except for maybe last night, but it wasn't like he had felt any unbearable heartache whenever they had to go their separate ways. Not for the first month of Anthony's avoiding him last time, anyway. After that, Ezra would be lying if he said a deep dread didn't settle in him that he, perhaps, had done the wrong thing. That he had hurt his friend. That they would never talk again.

And yet, when he'd met him and Adam in the park the other day, they talked like nothing ever happened. Perhaps he was overthinking this.

But perhaps not.

Ezra picked the magazine back up and sat back at his seat behind the counter as he continued reading the article.

**3\. He cares about your needs.**

Ezra glanced up from the magazine when his phone buzzed. It would be one of those days, wouldn't it? The saying might go 'no rest for the wicked', but there was rarely any peace for the virtuous either. Though, everything disappeared when he read the message on the black and white screen of his cell phone.

"_Sorry I was an ass yesterday.  
At the bakery for a peace offering.  
Will see you soon.  
-C"_

Well… That was alright, then.

* * *

Three words. Belgian, chocolate, croissants.

"You like it?" Anthony asked him while fed Adam, sitting in the windowsill he'd claimed as his own since Saturday. Perhaps Ezra would keep it cleared of all the books, if Anthony would still like to visit once Adam's mums were back.

"Are you out of your mind? These are fantastic! Are you sure you don't want any?"

Anthony shrugged. "I had breakfast before I left."

"Well, your loss. They are splendid," Ezra said as he ate another. He swore he saw Anthony smile at him, warm and gentle. But then again, it might have been directed towards Adam.

"That's good," Anthony said. "Wouldn't be much of a peace offering otherwise."

"Last I checked, we weren't at war."

"Last I checked, I was a complete ass to you yesterday and you deserved better."

"It's alright, dear. We all have those days," Ezra smiled.

A shade of pink tinged the other man's cheeks as he glanced away.

It made Ezra's heart leap, and he made a mental note of it to describe it in detail in his journal tonight. He briefly wondered if Anthony had any idea how captivating he was. If he knew how endearing he was.

"And…" he spoke again. "I'm also sorry about that night two years ago."

"What?"

"I was just… pissed out of my mind. I shouldn't have gone in to kiss you…" and Ezra had been sure Anthony would have gone on, had Adam not struggled around in his lap. "What's up, little guy? Are you full already?"

"I think he wants you to put him down," Ezra suggested.

Crowley gave him a look, but soon cracked a smile.

Ezra rolled his eyes. "On the floor, Anthony dear."

"Are you sure? He's been fine with me holding him so far."

"Just, trust me. There's nothing dangerous he can get up to in the shop."

Anthony seemed to think this over as his brows furrowed behind the rims of his sunglasses, but eventually set Adam down on the floor and vigilantly watched the baby as he crawled off.

"You've gotten attached, haven't you?" Ezra asked, leaning his chin on the palm of his hand.

"It's not like he's making it very difficult," Anthony shrugged, still glancing in the direction Adam crawled in. "And I do like children, you know?"

Ezra knew the man must have liked children on some level, of course. He wouldn't have had the presence he'd had in his niece's life if he hadn't. All that theatre Anthony put on to be the cool, tough guy, and yet, he was a big softie.

As the sun started to reach its apex and no longer hid behind the trees in the park outside the shop, its warm rays crashed through the window of the storefront, where Anthony was sitting in the windowsill. The sunlight caught behind his sunglasses, putting his eyes on display for Ezra, and bathed the bespectacled man in an almost ethereal aura. A smile spread across Ezra's face as he gazed deeply into those amber pools.

"I think your eyes are the most beautiful I've ever had the pleasure of looking at. It's a shame you hide them behind those sunglasses all the time."

Anthony blushed a deep red and glanced away, and Ezra realized that he hadn't just thought that to himself.

"I-I'm sorry!" he stammered. His face lit on fire like a matchstick struck at lightspeed. "I didn't mean to say that, I just…"

A grumble escaped Anthony. Something along the lines of "you could have just asked me," but against all odds, the man had taken off his sunglasses and tucked them into the inner pocket of his jacket.

* * *

Granted, it hadn't been the finest move on his part, Ezra thought as he scribbled in his journal that night, but it had been so worth it, to watch his eyes sparkle, his eyebrows knitting together, his mouth gaping, his cheeks growing the most beautiful shade of red…

And he had stayed. They had had lunch and dinner together, Anthony's treat, as well. They had talked about their respective jobs and crafts and everything and nothing. Anthony had actually managed to relax after letting Adam go and his sunglasses hadn't rested on his nose again until he went home for the night.

Perhaps he would contact Anathema on the matter. But that would have to wait until the next morning. For now, he shoved his journal under his pillow and went to sleep.


	7. Day 5

'Anthony dear.'

Crowley hadn't been called that in a _long _time. No one had called him by his first name since he started carefully avoiding Ezra, but once he apologized to the man for almost kissing him that one time, there it was again, awakening things in him that he'd painstakingly kept dormant, even with their now-increased contact.

And he said his eyes were beautiful.

Now, _that _was another can of worms on its own that awakened things in him which he would have a hard time pushing down. In fact, there wasn't much of anything more cheesy, tropey, borderline romantic one could say to someone they liked, and Ezra had gone and did it.

He'd laid awake for hours after he had come home and tucked the already sleeping Adam into his crib, mulling over what all of it meant. Ezra Zacharie Fell was not exactly a paragon of subtlety, but what it meant- no, what it _could _have meant, was simply too good to be true. Crowley had done nothing to deserve something like that. After all, he was always on the verge of fucking something up one way or another and this couldn't be an exception to the rule, he felt.

Speaking of which, his morning was going far too smooth.

Adam wailed from his crib in the living room. There it was. At least it was better than being left alone with his thoughts any longer. He got up from his bed, pulled his '86 Magic Tour T-shirt over his head and slinked over to the crying baby, who was standing and hanging onto the edge of the crib. The kid calmed down slightly when Crowley came into his view. He stopped screaming and looked up at the man with tearful, blue eyes.

"What's up, Adam?" Crowley asked casually, not expecting an answer in return.

Instead, Adam made grabby hands at him, which could only mean one thing.

"Up!" Adam said.

Crowley frowned. "Up?" he asked.

"Up!" Adam repeated.

Lucy hadn't mentioned anything about Adam speaking, however small or simple the words might be. The man immediately rushed back to his bedroom to grab his smartphone, pulled up Whatsapp on his way to the living room, almost walking face first into a narrowly avoided doorpost. He opened his chat with Lucy and pressed the little microphone.

"Can you say that again, Adam?" Crowley asked expectantly, smiling in encouragement.

Instead, Adam looked at him with his big eyes and made a gurgling sound instead.

"Work with me here, Adam, I just heard you say it. Come on, you can do it."

The boy's little face scrunched up as he seemed to give this due consideration.

"What's up, Adam?" Crowley repeated, in an attempt to garner the same reaction, but nothing came. He sighed in disappointment and laid his phone down in the crib. "Okay buddy, time for breakfast."

* * *

"I swear, Ezra, he talked!" Crowley said with some exasperation in his voice as Adam explored the ground floor of the bookshop again and, per the older man's request, his sunglasses now rested on his hair instead of on his nose. "Man, I wish I could have just recorded it for Lucy. She'd love to hear it."

Ezra raised his hands in self-defense. "I believe you, dear," he said in a tone Crowley knew was designed to calm him down. "At this point, it's important that you keep talking around him and to him. Ask him questions, so he can start associating words with people, objects and actions."

Crowley nodded. "Duly noted," he said curtly and he tried not to think of the day before. About the way Ezra had looked at him. Had talked to him. "So, what do you suggest we do?" he soldiered on.

Ezra shrugged. "Just talk to him constantly, don't even think too hard on it, but do make sure you articulate. Oh, and you could read him bedtime stories."

"Oh, I'm very good at that," Crowley grinned. "I used to read picture books to Anathema every week."

"Then you best get into practice again. I know I'm not a library, but you can borrow some of the picture books I have stocked here," Ezra said as he got up and beckoned for Crowley to follow him, which he did closely.

"That's actually very generous. Thank you," Crowley whispered.

"You almost sound surprised," Ezra smiled softly as he looked back at him. "Just kidding, you're welcome, Anthony," he added. His eyes sparkled with… something or other. Mischief, probably. Pride, more likely, as no one in London believed in carrying out the seven heavenly virtues more than Ezra Fell and his family. But the sparkle, the smirk… suddenly, there wasn't a single holy thought left in Crowley's mind. Gaping like a fish out of water, his mouth abruptly felt very dry. If he was staring, Ezra didn't seem to mind. But in due time, he turned away from Crowley and back to the matter at hand.

The children's section of the bookshop was next to the staircase that went up to the second and third floor of the shop, and the apartment attached to it, was stocked with brightly colored, hardback picture books, as well as novels and informative books for young readers. It was decked out with colorful little flags and bean bags. Years ago, Ezra had the idea of organizing reading afternoons, where volunteers would read to visiting children while their parents shopped. It never caught on.

"Is there anything you'd like to read to Adam in particular?" Ezra asked as he crouched by the bookcase that contained the picture books. Crowley followed suit.

"Um," he started. "I don't really know any of these new ones. You're the owner, what do you recommend?"

"A lot of the little kids that come in here are particularly excited about Rainbow Fish, because of the shiny bits, but I think the Very Hungry Caterpillar may be a better jumping off point. Oh, and Dick Bruna's Miffy books are a personal favourite of mine. They have a very good sense of rhyme and rhythm."

Crowley took the book Ezra held in front of his face, Miffy at the Zoo, let himself fall into one of the bean bags and opened the book to a random spread. With practised ease, Crowley found his storybook voice and read aloud:

"'They must have traveled for an hour  
but now they're here, you see  
and Father Bun steps out and says  
come Miffy, follow me.' Oh, that's cute. I'm sure he'll like that," Crowley noted as he looked back up to Ezra, who pointed to the space just beside his head. When he turned around, he found Adam watching over his shoulder, enraptured with the bunnies on the page. "Did you like that, Adam?"

Adam looked at him with bright blue eyes, a broad smile on his face and gave them a resounding "Bun!"

* * *

Ezra sat behind the counter as he listened to Anthony read three more books to Adam from his perch in the windowsill. He found his eyes closed and any tension left his shoulders as Anthony's voice filled the shop. His reading voice was smooth, steady and well-articulated. That this was soothing, to say the least, reflected in that halfway through the third book, Adam had fallen asleep against his chest.

"You know, my dear, if there's anyone you should call 'angel', it would be Adam. As someone who has worked with children in the past, I can guarantee you that children, much less babies this well-behaved are very hard to come by."

"Ngk," Anthony choked. "I really hoped you would have forgotten by now."

"You seemed to make a point of repeating it, so no. I didn't forget."

"Right." Anthony sat up straighter, but kept Adam securely cradled to his chest as he laid the book down.

Out of Anthony's sight, Ezra's hand still laid upon the magazine.

**4\. He acts differently around you.**

"I've been meaning to ask you..." Ezra tried, but he found that the words he originally intended to say drowned in a flood of doubt. He frowned, looking at Anthony, who looked at him expectantly, if a tad uneasy. "If something were, so to speak, 'up'... you would tell me, right?"

"'Course," Anthony said almost hastily. He got up and walked up to the counter, still holding Adam like the most precious thing in the world. He looked up at Ezra, amber eyes piercing blue. "Ez, you are literally the best friend that I have, I can promise you that if something is up, you'll be the first to hear." There was an almost pleading quality to Anthony's voice as he said that and a frown made deep creases in his forehead.

"So the reason you've been acting so off lately is…" Ezra asked.

Anthony paled. "I…" he said, glancing down at Adam as if he would provide a well-timed distraction, as he had before, but the boy stayed soundly asleep. "I'm just… figuring stuff out, you know?" he finally admitted. "But like I said. You'll be the first to hear."

"When you figure it out?"

"When I figure it out."

Ezra nodded. "That seems reasonable enough. And if you ever feel like you want to talk about whatever you're figuring out—"

"I'll know where to find you," Anthony smiled apologetically.

"Good." Ezra said with an almost satisfied nod. "And just for the record, I don't mind if you want to call me 'angel'. It's just that no one's ever bothered to give me a nickname before, is all. Especially one as 'blasphemous' as 'angel'."

"Well, like I said, it suits you. And you know I'm all about blasphemy according to your family, with my radical views on the world, what with that trans people should be able to transition, and same gender couples should be able to get married and whatnot."

"Yes, well…" Ezra mumbled with a pout. He didn't particularly like it when his family was brought up, especially when they'd been having fun before. He quickly changed the subject. "Anyway, it had me wondering what I should call you," he tried. That ought to steer this conversation elsewhere.

Anthony chuckled and smiled his lopsided smirk. Ezra couldn't help but gaze at his lips as he said, "I think I've told you upwards of a thousand times that you can just call me 'Crowley'."

Ezra's cheeks heated up. He blinked hard and shook his head. "Well yes, but I don't want to. That's your family's name, it's not _your _name. I was thinking something more along the lines of—"

"Of?"

'Handsome devil', Ezra would have liked to have said in that moment, or 'silver-tongued demon', perhaps, but he quickly found that any such courage escaped him. He glanced away to the counter. "I forgot," he lied, softly. "But I'm sure I'll remember sooner or later. It's a shame, though. It really suited you."

Anthony smiled and hummed in amusement. "Sticking to 'my dear', then? For the time being?"

"I suppose so…" Ezra mumbled as he slid his magazine further under the counter.

* * *

"Dearest ms. Device," Ezra mumbled as he tapped the buttons on his cellphone repeatedly to get the letters he needed. It was the middle of the night, and as such, he lay curled up in his bed as he typed the electronic letter. The lights in Ezra's room were still on, which bothered him, but the screen of his cell phone wasn't backlit and had to be illuminated somehow. "_It has come to my attention that your uncle Anthony has been behaving rather strangely as of late and I was hoping you could give me some insight into the situation, as he appears to be sending me rather mixed messages. One moment he'll be borderline flirtatious with me and the next, he'll be denying any such thing. It's becoming rather frustrating, but I don't know what to tell him. Thank you in advance. Yours sincerely, Ezra Fell."_

He gave the string of three SMS messages another quick once-over before finally pressing the button to send them. Anathema was very wise for her age. Surely, she would know what to do. He put his cell phone down on his night stand and got up to turn off his lights when suddenly, his phone started buzzing frantically for what felt like an eternity. With shaking hands, he picked up the device and read its screen. "Ten new messages?!"

"_He's in love with you."_

"_Like, head over heels."_

"_I don't think he knows how to tell you."_

"_Or maybe he's still in denial about it, tbh idk."_

"_No wait fuck, he said he didn't wanna ruin your friendship."_

"_Obviously he loves you enough not to want to risk what you have."_

"_While he definitely has trouble, you know, not acting on his feelings."_

"_Which is kinda sweet but painful to watch."_

"_But you didn't hear that from me."_

"_Love, Anathema."_

"_Thank you,"_ he replied. Turned off the lights and his phone and crawled into his bed. "Obviously he loves you enough to not want to risk what you have…" Ezra sighed. Tears pricked behind his eyes. That wasn't reassuring at all.


	8. Day 6

'_Obviously he loves you enough to not want to risk what you have.'_

Even on the next morning, miss Device's words still haunted Ezra's mind. What on Earth was that supposed to mean? That Anthony doubted he had what it took to be romantically involved with Ezra? Or worse, that Anthony doubted Ezra had what it took to be romantically involved with _him_?

Was it his family, perhaps? Anthony never mentioned aunts, uncles or cousins. Just him, his mother, rest her soul, his sister and her family. Ezra knew firsthand that Anathema would be thrilled to bits, and with how involved Anthony was in raising the girl he couldn't imagine her mother would have much of an issue with it. In fact, if memory serves, it was only her father who was… 'opposed' to uncle Tony being around as often as he was, which had led to a swift and merciless divorce.

Or was it Ezra's family? They were… something. Not in touch as much as of late, for one. And they were… they didn't… well… For all his jabs at his family, Anthony hadn't spoken a _single _lie about them.

The magazine, by now, was placed carefully back in the rack. Now that he knew Anthony was quite definitely into him, there was no need for it anymore. Taking its place behind the counter was Ezra's journal, in which he had written Anathema's messages in his meticulous handwriting. If he could only… only… do _what_, exactly? Ezra had never been in a relationship before. He doubted he ever properly courted before! No. Don't panic. Take a deep breath. There we go.

After all, if Anthony wasn't going to be able to keep a level head about this, Ezra would have to.

* * *

What snapped Ezra out of his thoughts wasn't the bell of his shop ringing, as he was still occupied with his journal. It wasn't the fall of heavy boots against the floorboards, walking up to the counter, either. Instead, it was a young, chipper "Hi Ezra!"

He nearly flung his journal across the bookshop. "M-Miss Device!" he greeted nervously, gripping the book ever so slightly more tightly. "I, uh… may I ask what you're doing here?"

"Hm… I was gonna say that I passed by on my way to school so I figured I'd pop in real quick before continuing on my way, but I actually took a four block detour to get here… I'm actually here to check up on you," Anathema said with an apologetic look on her face.

Ezra frowned. "Who? Me? Whatever for?"

The girl's eyes widened and she pressed her lips together in an awkward line. "I may have told my mum about last night and she said… well… I didn't stop to consider that kind of knowledge might freak you out and put you off to uncle Tony forever, and I don't want that. I'm sorry."

He laid the book back down. "If I'm completely honest, it did 'freak me out' a little, but I accept your apology," he said softly. "It's a little embarrassing, really, but I spent the better part of a decade wondering if he felt the same for me, especially the last two years, just… dreaming about it, fantasizing about it, and now I just _know_, and I can't tell you how strange that feels."

"But you should have heard it from him, not me! Wait—" Anathema frowned and glanced up at him, leaning further over the counter. "What do you mean, 'especially the last two years'?"

"We-well, you see, there was this, uh, well, I wouldn't call it an 'incident' per say, perhaps something closer to an 'occurence'—"

"I'm not here to discuss semantics, Ezra. What did he do?"

"I mean, it wasn't so much what he _did _do—"

"Mr. Fell, _please_."

"We almost kissed and then he never contacted me again until he got Adam! There. Are you happy now?"

Anathema looked up at him with eyes like saucers and an incredulous grin quirked at the corners of her mouth. "You guys did _what_?"

"You heard me, young lady."

"I'm sorry about the way uncle Tony dealt with it, though. I mean, I know he's awkward, and he did say he hadn't spoken to you in 'a while', but I didn't think 'a while' would be two full years."

"Oh Anathema…" the man sighed. "That's very kind of you, but you know that's not necessary."

"I mean, I guess, but…"

"No buts and certainly no apologies. Now, shouldn't you be getting to school?"

"I should," Anathema mumbled as she backed off from the counter. "I guess I'll see you around then." And with that, she was gone.

* * *

When Crowley entered the bookshop that morning, there was something different about the way it felt. As if the very atmosphere in the shop had changed. It was like someone had opened a window in a room that was dusty and stuffy and had been long since closed up, and then promptly shut it again. He glanced at Adam, sitting on his arm. He didn't seem to notice anything was different. And Ezra was seated behind the counter, as always, so Crowley decided to pay it no mind.

The man still had his nose buried in that leatherbound journal of his, and his eyebrows seemed to force their way together until they twitched. He probably hadn't even heard Crowley come in.

He pouted. Not because he was particularly disappointed that Ezra, even now, didn't seem to notice his presence, but because one of these days some scoundrel was going to walk in here and shoplift all of the books, and there would be Hell to pay for it.

Quietly, Crowley walked up to the counter, sneaking a closer look at Ezra. His chin leaned in the palm of his left hand, while he held the book in the right. His intent gaze was fixed so firmly on the pages that Crowley was sure he would blush like a schoolgirl, should he ever find himself at the receiving end of it. And he did.

Ezra's eyes flitted up from the book, fixing that intent gaze on Crowley, before he scrambled to put the journal down behind the counter in a panic. "I-I'm sorry, I didn't notice you were here!"

The fussiness had been charming. Cute, even. But the look in his sky-blue eyes had already made Crowley's blood run cold and his face run hot, and for a few seconds, it felt like his very heart had stopped beating.

"Oh," Crowley said flippantly as he ignored every signal his body gave him. "No biggie."

"If you say so, my dear," Ezra said, smiling his awkward smile that phased into fondness as he stood up to gently pet at Adam's head. "Good morning, Adam."

Adam giggled and cooed, reaching up for the man's hand and gripping his thumb.

The boy had, as Crowley had recently discovered, a death grip, which he exerted on many things, but primarily Crowley's hair. This was why he kept Adam's grabby little hands an arm's length away from his head as he put the boy down on the floor to explore the bookshop some more.

"And good morning to you too, of course, Anthony," Ezra continued when Crowley came back up again, now turning that fond look to him.

Suddenly, the stuffy air of the bookshop seemed to suffocate him. He wanted out. He needed out. But he didn't want to worry Ezra by abandoning him. Again. "You know," he started, "I was hoping maybe we could take Adam to the park later today…. On your lunch break, maybe? We could just lock the door, cross the street and let him play in the sandbox a little? Maybe push him a bit on the swing?" He saw a small head of golden hair perk up from behind a display table. Crowley couldn't help but smile.

"Of course, my dear. That sounds like fun," Ezra said. "But why so nervous?"

"Who? Me? Nervous?" Crowley laughed nervously. "I'm not. I was just… planning the trip while I told you about it. Simultaneously."

"The trip across the street, you mean?" Ezra asked, exasperation and amusement written all over his face.

"Yes. I don't see how that's funny," Crowley said with the conviction of a soccer mom who was convinced she was wronged by the server bringing her a coke zero instead of a coke light.

* * *

People were staring. Had been for the last hour and a half. Of course they were, though. They were two adult, queer men hanging out at a playground with a baby. This was apparently 'out of the ordinary', even in central London. Crowley knew he shouldn't be offended. Adam wasn't _their _baby after all, however hard Crowley may be falling for the boy. Well. At least they weren't the suspicious stares Crowley got walking with Adam alone. They were 'encouraging' stares, which were almost just as bad. Because Ezra and him? Nothing between them. No sir. Nothing at all. Well. There was. But it was all one-sided. At least, now that they were outside, he could wear his sunglasses again, and no one would catch him glaring.

Adam was currently enjoying himself in the sandbox of the playground, he and Ezra sat by the edge not too far away, when a girl of about two years old with curly hair galaxies worth of freckles on her face approached him holding a lump of sand and handed it to Adam.

Adam looked at it for a second before apparently deciding his lunch had not been enough and took a bite out of it.

"Adam, no! Spit it out!" Crowley shouted.

Ezra was the first of them out of his seat, Crowley close behind him, running over and scooping Adam into his arms and making the baby spit out the sand.

"Oh my goodness, I'm so sorry!" called a young woman as she ran up to them and picked up the little girl. "Pippin is very fond of sharing. Like, to a fault."

Crowley said nothing.

"'Pippin'?" Ezra asked. He made a face.

"Yes," the woman answered enthusiastically. "Pippin Galadriel Moonchild. That's her name."

Ezra's face turned to a grimace. The woman didn't seem to notice.

"Well! Surely Adam is more than happy to meet your little Pippin," Crowley interrupted before the woman could start to notice.

"Of course," the woman smiled. "Oh! I'm sorry, I'm Janice, by the way," she said as she extended her hand.

Crowley took it and shook it. "Crowley. This is Ezra and Adam."

"Pleased to meet you," Janice said. "Say, I can't say I've seen you gentlemen around the playground before. Are you new here?"

"Oh no, we're hardly new here!" Ezra said, seemingly recovered from the shock of that poor girl's name. "I've actually owned the bookshop across the street for a decade now, and I believe _Anthony _here has lived in London all his life. We've simply never had a reason to come to the playground before."

Janice frowned, before a realization dawned upon her. "Oh yes, I've heard adoption can be such a hassle, especially for gay couples and whatnot. Someone really ought to do something about that."

"We're not a—" Crowley started.

"We're not his—" Ezra cut off.

Crowley blessed under his breath that he didn't finish that. He sighed. "We're just looking after him."

The woman suddenly looked extremely uneasy and shifted her daughter on her hip. "I, uh, well—"

"No need to apologize," Ezra said before she could, placing his free hand on her arm. "It was a very logical conclusion to come to."

"We-well, yes," she stammered, "but I shouldn't have assumed that you were… you know?"

Crowley smiled and put a saccharine tone into his voice. It was probably a good thing Janice couldn't see what went on behind his sunglasses. "You know what, I'm afraid I don't. Would you please elaborate?"

Ezra nudged him with his elbow and shot him a warning look, but Janice's face was growing red now and Crowley was too amused to stop.

"By all means, we're dying to find out."

"Actually, I just remembered I have somewhere to be very urgently," the woman said before power walking away from Crowley, Ezra and Adam. Pippin waved at them until they were out of sight.

"Really, my dear?"

"What?"

* * *

"Pippin Galadriel Moonchild," Ezra sighed as he leaned his head back against the window of the shop's door. Adam, who had been exhausted after two hours of intense swinging, see-sawing and sandbox scooping in the playground, was currently taking a nap against his chest.

Crowley leaned over him to flip the sign to 'open'.

"That poor girl. Can you imagine having to go to school with a name like that?"

"Don't think they go around reading the Lord of the Rings to six year olds nowadays," Crowley joked. Adrenaline still coursed through his veins from roasting that Janice lady.

"No, but they will find it sooner or later," Ezra asserted, moving over to sit down in Crowley's usual spot in the window seat. "Hopefully. I mean, the books are quite good."

"Only seen the movies," Crowley quipped. "I hope she becomes best friends with a girl named Mary, tough," he said with a grin.

"Oh, you devil! And by the way, there was no reason for you to be so mean to that poor woman."

Giddy laughter escaped Crowley as he made for the kitchenette in Ezra's apartment, scaling the stairs two steps at a time. "I am underappreciated in my time," he mock-whined. "I'll make it up to you! Tea or cocoa?"

"Cocoa, if you don't mind," he faintly heard Ezra say.

Crowley cracked his knuckles as he got to work in the tiny kitchen. The fresh air must have done him some good as well. He hadn't felt this… _light _in a while. A happiness swarmed in his chest that seemed to make him weightless, all by watching the man he admired so much play with a small child. And thoroughly sassing that woman added to his exceptionally good mood as well.

He felt _good_. He felt _confident_.

And, maybe, he felt like he could tell Ezra how he feels.

Just not today.


	9. Day 7 part 1

That morning, Adam didn't wake to bright rays of sunshine warming his soft cheeks, nor did he wake from his internal clock telling him it was time to get up and give Crowley an earful about requiring breakfast ASAP.

Instead, he woke from sweet tones coming from Crowley's ancient tape deck.

'_I can dim the lights and sing you songs full of sad things…'_

This was because Crowley was really much better at brainstorming when he was in the right mood, and nothing quite set the mood like _just _the right Queen song. After all, Queen had at least one song for every possible human emotion, so desperate times often called for Best of Queen.

'_We can do the tango just for two…'_

His mum had given him the cassette tape on his tenth birthday and he had been over the moon. They didn't have much to spend at the time for reasons Crowley would rather not think about and his mother had been too busy for much of anything for those same reasons, but when he woke up that fateful morning in 1997 he found a neatly wrapped, brittle plastic box sitting on his nightstand and the gesture had meant the world to him. It was in those years that Crowley learned that true love isn't proclaimed; it's shown. Not in grand gestures or melodrama, but in the mundane. In a birthday present waiting for you on your nightstand, in packed lunches sitting in the fridge, in bringing your crush chocolate croissants after a massive cock-up.

'_I can serenade and gently play on your heartstrings…'_

But as effective as actions were in expressing one's soul crushing love for another, they were terrifying. They _had _terrified. Two years ago, he had almost kissed the love of his life, but he'd hesitated. He didn't know if Ezra wanted it too. He hesitated and was met with Ezra's painfully blue eyes darting around the bar. He was nervous. He was shaking. And then he paid the tab and booked it out of there. How do you come back from that?

'_Be your valentino just for you…'_

The answer to that was, you didn't. You tore down everything you had painstakingly built up in one fell swoop, and then pathetically, when everything slotted together again, you started pathetically building things back up again, like some kind of wonky Lego castle. You smoked to hide your shaking fingers. You wore sunglasses to hide the fact that the very sight of his shining smile made you tear up. You dressed in black to mourn something that never was, but could have been. _Should _have been.

'_Ooh love, ooh loverboy…'_

You got up and tried again.

* * *

Ezra had always had a way with the written word. Not so much the spoken word. This was why he had Gabriel for communicating with potential publishers, and his pseudonym to hide behind. It was why he couldn't convince his family that writing novels was a perfectly respectable pastime, and that, despite not being the most virtuous, Anthony was actually a genuinely good person.

'_Dearest Anthony…'_

But what good were words, even the written ones if you couldn't find the right ones? Because how did you tell a man you've known for a decade that you've been in love with him all that time? How would he explain that he hadn't told him earlier? Why he had wasted their collective time by being a coward? It didn't bear thinking about; it just wasn't justifiable.

'_I'm sorry about the way I've failed to act on my feelings before…'_

He grunted as he hoisted a stack of books from the box in the doorway of his shop and placed it on the new arrivals table, rearranging it as he tried to worry about other things. Things had been slow for the shop lately, but he'd been keeping afloat well enough. The recession hadn't forced him out of business; the dawn of the ereader hadn't, either; a slow month was nothing. People would be gearing up for their beach vacations any time now and his books would sell like anything. Well, _his _books… He chuckled. It would still take well over a year until his, or rather, _Aziraphale's _book would hit shelves, which was a tremendous relief. Sure, he had read the book and project Anathema had left at the shop, but he would have to revise almost the entire story, especially now that he knew who his subject's last surviving descendants were. He wanted to do right by Anathema, her mother and Anthony.

'_The simple facts are these:'_

Everything always seemed to gravitate back to him, like the universe revolved around _him_. Creative Anthony, who found joy in drawing things for him and, once upon a time many years ago, would sneakily sketch him. Happy Anthony, who made his chest swell and burst with butterflies with every dorky, snarky, nervous laugh of his.

'_You are my sun; beautiful, bright and blinding. You caught me in your orbit many years ago and I would be forever unable to escape. However, a satellite,' no, that's not right, 'a moon of all of my accumulated fears eclipsed your light that warmed my world…' No. No, that won't do, either._

Ezra wondered briefly if his books, should they suddenly become sentient (he hoped they wouldn't), would be jealous of his feelings for the other man. In fact, he hoped they would be happy for him, and quickly decided that they would be more than okay with a break from his fussing, but his admittedly odd train of thought was interrupted by the jingling of the bell over the door.

'_Dearest Anthony, I love—'_

"Ezra Fell, you absolute genius, you've done it again!" Gabriel cried as he strode into the shop.

"Ex-excuse me?" he stammered.

"The publisher. They want your book. Turns out 'medieval, strong female-led with a touch of the supernatural' is exactly what they were looking for. They agreed to all of our terms in regards to royalties and compensation."

A feeling of pride swelled within him. His book. Exactly what they were looking for. He couldn't help but grin as even Gabriel seemed to smile down on him. "Well, did they give you any notes?"

"They wanted more from the witch's perspective, which I told them you can do," Gabriel started.

"Yes, of course, that will be no problem at all," Ezra confirmed excitedly.

"And they want you to do some public appearances to promote the book. Mostly just signings."

"Absolutely not."

"Ezra, it's in the conditions."

"I don't care what's in the conditions, I won't do it!" Ezra cried. Just now noticing that he was growing slightly lightheaded, he drew in slow, deep breaths to steady himself. His mouth set into a thin line. Gabriel frowned at him.

"If this is still about your family," the American tried. "I suggest you let that go. You're forty-one, what can they do to you? Really?"

Ezra shrugged but looked down in defeat. There was nothing they could logically do to him, and yet he was afraid. The feeling of pride he felt before was as good as gone. Drained completely by the idea of having to be publicly known.

He didn't write for the attention, for the fame, even less so for the fortune. He wrote because he loved it and there was no other option for him than to write. "I just don't like being in the spotlight…" he mumbled, and Gabriel would have to take his word for it.

"Okay, fine, I'll try to negotiate it out of the conditions."

"Thank you," Ezra mumbled faintly.

"Right, so, in other news," Gabriel said, trying to turn the mood around. "Ever found out if 'he was really into you', or whatever that silly magazine said?"

Ugh. This again. Ezra buried his face in his hands, not really wanting to answer, but he nodded nonetheless.

"So? What did he say? Did you ask him out?"

He shook his head, face still firmly planted in the palms of his hands.

"Oh my god, you're unbelievable. You asked him if he liked you, didn't you?"

He shook his head again.

"Then how? How do you know?" Gabriel asked, some exasperation in his voice.

Finally, Ezra looked up, frowning. "His niece told me, alright? She told me all sorts of things. That he loves me. That he's loved me for about a decade, and, you know, I've loved him just as long. But she said he loved me too much to want to risk our friendship, which nearly did go down the drain the last time we _almost _acted on our feelings. And then—"

The bell over the door jingled.

"Am I interrupting something?"

Speak of the devil and he appears.

In the doorway of the shop stood Anthony. Adam on one arm, a carton with two paper coffee cups in the other hand, and a paper bag clamped between his upper arm and his chest. Ezra recognized the logo on the bag from a few days prior. It was undoubtedly filled with more chocolate croissants and other delectable baked goods as their smell slowly but surely filled the shop.

Ezra glanced up at Gabriel, whose eyes were fixed intently on Anthony. He didn't show much of a reaction, but his lips didn't curl down in disdain. He quickly glanced at Ezra, quirked his lips, then turned his gaze back to Anthony.

"You must be 'him', then?" Gabriel asked, extending his hand to Crowley, who gestured his full hands. Adam recoiled slightly.

"I must be 'who', then?"

"Ezra's—"

"Artist!" Ezra interrupted. He got up from the stool behind the counter and hurried up to them, taking the carton and paper bag out of Anthony's hold. "He's the artist I want to make the cover. Anthony Crowley."

Finally, Gabriel shook his hand. "Your reputation precedes you."

"I mean, I guess," Anthony almost stammered. "I hope Ezra hasn't been overselling my work too much."

"Not at all. I look forward to reviewing your portfolio with Ezra and the publisher. Anyway, I gotta fly. Ezra, we'll discuss those re-negotiations later. You gentlemen have a nice day."

Anthony turned and stared at the man as he walked by the windows, before looking to Ezra and mumbling "Well, he's a character, isn't he? Your agent?"

"How did you know? You've never met before."

"No, but you've talked about him before. 'This unnatural glint of perpetual jolliness in his eyes'." Anthony impeccably imitated his tone and speech. "Or something, you said. Well, he fits the bill," he mumbled.

A shudder ran up Ezra's spine.

"See? Gives even you the chills."

Adam giggled.

Ezra shrugged. "Perhaps that's how he does his job so well. Anyway, will you have some of this today? I'd feel horrible to eat all of it," he said as he held up the bag.

"If you insist." Anthony waved his hand noncommittally.

"I do."

He walked over to the counter and put down the carton with the cups to open the bag and see what's inside, but not before he breathed in the rich, decadent scent of the food inside. There were definitely chocolate croissants in there.

* * *

Crowley couldn't help but smile at the look of sheer delight on Ezra's face as he dug into the pastries. There was a child-like sort of honesty about him that made him such an open book. When Ezra liked something, you knew, and if Ezra hated something, you _knew_. Currently, as far as Crowley could tell, he was on cloud nine, and therefore, so was Crowley.

This was much to the frustration of young Adam, for who Crowley had been picking bits off a regular croissant, feeding them to him. He made a noise.

"Ngk." Crowley tore his gaze away from Ezra to turn to Adam. "Sorry to keep you waiting, your highness," he mumbled as he tore off another bit of the croissant and fed it to Adam's waiting mouth before taking a larger chunk for himself. He hadn't realized he'd been staring until Adam made him painfully aware.

* * *

Painfully aware of the eyes burning holes in him, Ezra nibbled on one of the chocolate croissants. Anthony was definitely staring at him. There was no denying it, as alien as it felt. Ezra wasn't much of a looker and he was well aware of that fact. He was never stared at, no, ogled so openly… so… so… obscenely. Did Anthony always look at him like this? How had he not noticed before?

It wasn't a bad feeling per se, but it was quite overwhelming to experience for the first time. Ezra wasn't sure how much he could take of it in the long run. He had to speak up. Had to say something. Come on Ezra, he thought, how hard could it be? He may be the man that you fancy an awful lot, but he's also your friend, and friends trust each other and tell each other the truth. He took a sip of his lukewarm cocoa to calm his nerves.

'_He cares enough about you not to want to risk what you have.'_

Then what kind of friend did that make Ezra, who would give anything for Anthony to be his?

* * *

There had been a change. Something was bothering Ezra, Crowley could tell. Even when he'd been so happy just moments before. Something would have to be done about that. He gave Adam the final bit of the croissant and settled him down in the windowseat before getting up and walking up to the counter. Whatever it was that was dragging Ezra down would have to square the fuck up.

"Angel, what's wrong?"

* * *

'Your staring makes me nervous,' Ezra wanted to say, but didn't.

"There's nothing wrong," Ezra mumbled instead, trying to keep his cool. He swiveled in his stool and wiped his hands on his trousers. They were growing sweaty.

"Are you sure?" Anthony asked. He tilted his head. With his dark clothes and shining, amber eyes, he looked all the more like a concerned black cat. "There's nothing I can do to make it better?"

Ezra felt a blush creep to his face and he quickly broke eye contact. "S-silly Anthony, you know you don't have to do anything for me. You know I'll be quite alright on my own."

* * *

This, Crowley doubted.

"Ezra, what would you say if I, after this whole business with Adam, took you out for dinner? Properly. Like back in the day. We could go to the Ritz," Crowley suggested as casually as he could. Ezra's gaze snapped back up at him.

"How would you— Can you even—" Ezra stammered, but finally summarized his thoughts in a single "Why?"

Crowley's gaze turned towards the floor. "Because I want to make things better with you. I went too fast, I hurt you, and then I didn't even call the next day."

* * *

Ezra took a shaky breath as he tried to formulate an answer. "Well, it's not like I contacted you either…" he trailed off.

"Well, yes, but I scared you off—"

"You didn't! I—" Ezra started, but he caught himself, glanced further away and took a moment to reorganize his thoughts. "Alright, perhaps in that moment, you did. But… It was just, you know…" He gestured his hands wildly in hopes of illustrating the point he was trying to make. Anthony nodded, but his eyes told Ezra that it didn't really land. "I'd very much like for things to go back to the way they were before." Ezra said, lying, but knowing it would keep them within the safety of their comfort zone, he settled for it. "I'll go to the Ritz with you after all this."

Anthony smiled the brightest he had all day.

"On the condition that you let me return the favour some time after. It's a real pleasure just seeing you again, and if you're going to treat me to thank me for barely helping you at all, I feel like I should get to do the same."

Anthony looked taken aback, but tried very hard not to show it. It didn't work out. "Sure?"

Ezra smiled. "Good. Then it's a date."


	10. Day 7 part 2

It was Friday night, which could only mean one thing: dinner at Angela's. It was something Crowley and her had done ever since she'd moved out of their parental home twenty years ago, much to the chagrin of Angela's ex-husband.

These days, it was usually just Crowley, Angela and Anathema, a bottle of wine split between the former two, talking about their weeks and complaining about their respective bosses, coworkers and in Anathema's case, teachers.

But this Friday was different. Because instead of his usual bottle of South African red wine, he brought two jars of baby food in a bag and a very tiny guest.

Crowley unlocked the front door to their little redbrick house in Brixton with his own keys and made his way through the dark and narrow hallway to be met with the precious sight of Angela sitting on the floor, putting together the high chair with Anathema.

"No mum, I swear, this bit goes here," Anathema asserted. Angela sighed.

"Anathema, my sweet darling, with all due respect, I don't think you remember the last time your dad and I put this thing together for you to sit in."

"Angie, my dear sister, with all due respect, your daughter is right." Crowley grinned.

"Tony!" Angela called when she caught sight of him, leaping to her feet to greet him and Adam and leaving Anathema to put together the high chair. "Here I thought I'd never see you with a baby on your arm that wasn't mine. And you must be Adam," she cooed as she turned to the boy. "Such a handsome little man, you are."

Crowley looked down at the boy and smiled. "Yeah, he's a real heartbreaker." But upon watching his niece struggle with the chair, he handed Adam and the baby food over to Angela without a second thought. "Alright Annie, this is embarrassing, hand me that leg. You hold the seat and I'll shove it in."

"I bet that's what Mr. Fell said." Anathema grinned and wiggled her eyebrows, but followed Crowley's instructions nonetheless.

Crowley, shoving the leg of the high chair into the underside of the seat as non-sensually as humanly possible, made a face. "You watch your language, young lady."

"I was just kidding," Anathema said as she held the seat steady for the second leg. "Besides, he's totally got eyes for you, uncle Tony. Would it kill you to make a move?"

"Yes," Crowley nearly snapped, punctuated by shoving the third leg into place. "I asked him out for dinner back in the bookshop and I thought for sure I was going to pass out."

Crowley's gaze snapped towards the sound of a jar of baby food hitting the floor and running away. Angela stood gaping at him. He turned back to Anathema, who had a similar look of amazement on her face.

"Ohmigod," Anathema uttered. "You finally asked out Mr. Fell!?"

Crowley shrugged, putting the fourth leg into the chair and turning it upright before he got up. "Not really. We're just going to dinner as friends. We used to do things like that all the time."

Angela swatted at Anathema's ear once she got up. "Well, whatever it's for, we're very excited for you. Where are you taking him?"

"I'm taking him to the Ritz," he said resolutely.

Angela and Anathema exchanged a look.

"You mean the obscenely expensive Ritz?" Angela asked.

"He deserves it," Crowley answered.

"The ridiculously romantic Ritz?" Anathema followed.

"It's not just for couples, Anathema. There are plenty of people who go there who are just friends, surely," Crowley deflected quite coolly, he thought.

He didn't catch the other look the mother and daughter exchanged.

"I think it's time to put dinner out on the table," Angela said.

"I couldn't agree with you more." Anathema nodded. The two disappeared into the kitchen.

* * *

"This is worse than I thought," Angela whispered, arms folded over one another as her daughter gave the pasta a firm final stir before draining it.

"I know," Anathema whispered back.

"Something has to happen about this."

"I know." Anathema tasted the sauce. It was perfect.

"And if Tony finds out we had something to do with it, we'll never hear the end of it."

"I _know_."

"So… What do we do?" Angela enquired. Anathema narrowed her eyes at her.

"I thought you said that after that whole thing with Mr. Fell we weren't going to get any more involved than we already were?"

"I know what I said!" the mother hissed. "It's just that he's my baby brother, and I want him to have what's best for him."

"Which would be Mr. Fell," Anathema suggested.

"And a life out of that horrid office of his. Or a life out of this city in general. Maybe one day they could retire to a quaint old cottage in the South Downs and he could finally have some rest."

"That sounds nice…" Anathema mused. "But I thought uncle Tony was really good at his job?"

"He is, but just because you're good at something, doesn't mean it's good for you."

* * *

This was exactly what crossed Crowley's mind when he ducked into the bathroom to change Adam's diaper.

Sure, he seemed to do exceptionally well with the boy*; he didn't kick, didn't squirm and didn't start peeing on Crowley seconds after he'd peeled off the diaper, but _that smell_. No matter how much he liked children, that was something Crowley would never get used to.

_(*Even Anathema gave Crowley more trouble at Adam's age.)_

Adam giggled and clapped his hands in delight as Crowley gagged.

* * *

When all was said and done, the four met again in the dining area. Angela and Anathema placed the pans on the table — Angela serving out the pasta — as Tony slid Adam back into his high chair.

"Did the little prince require your services again, Tony?" she asked with a little, satisfied grin on her face. The source of her satisfaction being that Tony couldn't pass Adam back to her and say 'your baby, your poopy diaper' half the time.

"'Little prince'?" Tony grimaced. "With the smells he's producing, he ought to be Lord of the Flies!"

Angela's grin grew wider and she looked at her daughter. "Just imagine, maybe, when his boss comes home, she'll be so satisfied with your work that she'll want him to be Adam's permanent babysitter."

Anathema caught on and winked at her. "Well, I, for one, think uncle Tony would make a great nanny. You know, traveling by umbrella, and telling Adam that a spoonful of sugar helps the medicine go down. Oh! Maybe he'll let a charming Dick sweep his chimney—"

Angela elbowed her in the side.

"Shut up, Annie. You know I'd rock that getup," Tony said, his cheeks growing red behind those silly sunglasses of his.

"Okay, but seriously, take off those damned shades. You're inside and with polite company, there's no reason for you to keep them on." She snatched the sunglasses from his face and tucked them into her breast pocket as she sat down and finally got to eating.

"That's debatable," Tony joked, glancing at Anathema. He took a few bites before feeding Adam. "So, you ladies seem invested enough in my life. How were your respective days?"

* * *

It wasn't that Crowley didn't appreciate his sister or her attempts of helping him out. He was glad, even, that Anathema seemed to have inherited this trait from her mother. If only she didn't 'help him out' in his love life as much because so far, her attempts at 'helping him out' tended to end rather embarrassingly.

For example, in primary school, when Angela had somehow gotten Marjorie Smith* to ask out Crowley, which ended in his premature coming out.

_(*The most beautiful girl in school**.)  
(**Despite feeling no attraction to the fairer sex at all, Crowley still found himself in posession of a pair of working eyes and enough cultural indoctrination to identify a beautiful girl when he saw one.)_

Or in secondary school, when Angela had somehow gotten Crowley to ask out Eric Harris*, which ended in his premature heartbreak.

_(*The most beautiful boy in school**.)  
(**Unfortunately, heterosexual.)_

Or at his old part-time job, when Angela got him to ask out his manager, which ended in Crowley's premature firing*.

_(*No matter how you look at it, this one was destined to end in disaster.)_

This was why he, under no circumstances, wanted his sister and his niece involved with his courting of Ezra if what he was doing could be called 'courting' at all. It felt more like dancing on the edge of an active volcano: one wrong step in either direction would mean certain death. But he was sick of it. Sick of dancing around his problems for just shy of a decade. And so, he took a deep, shaking breath and steadied himself as he said:

"Angie, I need your advice."

Angela and Anathema, both halfway into their second serving, gave Crowley a look. Adam, quickly picking up on the cue, looked at him as well.

"How do I ask out Ezra?"


	11. Day 8

It was dark in the bookshop. Ezra's best guess was that it was past midnight. The only light in the shop came from a flickering lamp post outside, even the lights behind the signs of the other shops in the street were out.

But nevertheless, he was down in his shop, alone, with Anthony, backed against the counter by the other man. He wasn't sure how they got here, but couldn't bring himself to care when he found one of Anthony's hands on his hip, the fingers of his other hand digging into the back of his vest, clinging on for dear life, and Anthony's lips firmly planted on his own.

They started slowly and gently, he was sure he remembered, but they were well past that now. Anthony pulled back and gasped, his face red from breathlessness and other things, but soon those lips were back at his jaw, his neck, his collarbone, and ventured vaguely downwards. The other hand, withdrawn from the back of Ezra's vest, found purchase at his other hip, jerked him forward and—

* * *

He woke up.

A groan of frustration and disgust escaped him as he sat up. This hadn't happened to him in, what, twenty-five years? He hated it now just as much as he hated it back then.

Light filtered through his drawn curtains and a quick glance at his alarm clock told him it was almost half past six in the morning. He sighed and decided it was probably for the best to just get up and start his day. With a cold shower.

* * *

The memory of his dream wouldn't let him go.

Ezra rubbed through his eyes as he wrote his dream down in his journal, sitting at his desk in the small apartment over the shop. Onto the page and out of his mind, he always said. Really, he should probably be revising the first draft of his book, but on the other hand, perhaps if he wrote this first, he wouldn't be haunted by Anthony's lips anymore.

He wondered vaguely what it would feel like if, _when _it really happened. Would he be sure of himself? Experienced? Or would he perhaps be just as much of a nervous mess as Ezra? The idea was mildly reassuring, but with the way he looked, the way he _moved_, Ezra found this extremely unlikely.

* * *

The fact of the matter was that Crowley _was _a nervous mess. It was eleven in the morning by the time Crowley found himself pacing around on the pavement in front of the door to Ezra's shop. Five past eleven… Ten past eleven...

It was ridiculous to the point that even Adam looked at Crowley weird. Crowley frowned. "Geez, no need to be judgy. You ask him out if you're so good at it," he murmured to the baby. "No, wait, never mind. If you asked out Ezra, of course he would say yes. Just look at you, you're irresistible."

An old lady looked at him in a way that oozed suspicion and Crowley snapped.

"What?! Never seen a nervous wreck before?! Oh, fuck it," he said with a sigh, raised his hand to the door. A quick glance through the window had already told him that Ezra wasn't downstairs, but a quick glance next to the door suggested to him that the man had never gotten a doorbell installed. And so, he resorted to knocking.

* * *

Ezra's gaze snapped up from his journal when he heard shouting through the paper-thin walls of his building.

"What?! Never seen a nervous wreck before?!"

Anthony.

He looked back down at the notebook and found that he'd filled pages upon pages with his thoughts. Oh dear. Maybe this was worse than he thought. What time was it, even? He glanced at the clock. A quarter past eleven?! He was supposed to have opened the shop over an hour ago! Knocking sounded at the door as rushing feet stumbled down the creaking steps of the stairs. He was out of breath by the time he made it to the door and unlocked it, giving Anthony a nervous smile through the window.

"Sorry I took so long," he stammered. "Lost track of time."

Anthony took off his sunglasses and raised an eyebrow. "That's unlike you… Are you alright? You look like you're burning up." Anthony raised a hand to lay on Ezra's forehead, but Ezra ducked out of the way.

"N-no, I'm fine, thank you. Oh! Please, do come in," he said as he moved aside for Anthony and Adam. He came so close. Almost as close as in his dream. Except he could smell him now. His shampoo, his cologne, the distinct lack of tobacco was new, so Ezra committed it to memory. It was different. A good different.

He smiled nervously as he stepped into the shop. All pearly white and dazzling bright, but what was he nervous for? Ezra heard him shouting so just now, but he'd missed the context. Perhaps, if he wasn't so focused on his writing, he would have known.

"Speaking of which, are _you _alright?" Ezra asked. "I heard you shouting just now. What are you nervous about?" '_I hope you weren't nervous about coming here,'_ Ezra added mentally.

"What? Pfsh, of course not. Why would I be nervous? No, no, it's… something else." Anthony's eyes guiltily darted around in that way he always did when he thought of an excuse. Ezra had forgotten all about it, but he'd gotten well reacquainted with his eccentricities over the last week.

The last week, Ezra realized.

In seven days, Anthony's boss would come back from her vacation and life would go back to normal. There would be no more Adam and no more excuses to 'hang out' with Anthony. Save for perhaps that one dinner at the Ritz, but they spoke of that many times in the past, and then it never came to fruition.

"Actually, it's more about something I've been meaning to ask you," Anthony said as he scratched behind his ear.

A realization dawned on Ezra. His breath caught in his throat.

This was it.

* * *

This was it.

All he had to do was ask this god damned question. All he had to do was speak, find out whether Ezra loved him back or not and start a new chapter of his life, with or without him. It was just a stupid question, but Crowley felt like he was having a heart attack instead.

He tried to keep his cool outwardly, at least, but the look in Ezra's eyes and the reflection in his glasses told Crowley that his body was betraying him.

"I… Would you… I mean, if you'd be so inclined…" Crowley stammered.

Ezra stared up at him with a bright-eyed intensity that he'd rarely felt before. If anything, it made him more nervous. By now, he wasn't even sure he was breathing anymore. Every fibre in his body was screaming at him to abort.

"Help me write a letter of resignation?"

So he did.

* * *

Ezra tried not to scream in frustration. He really did, but he couldn't stop a small sound of dejection from escaping. Anthony was trying, he could tell, but his self-sabotaging ways were beginning to wear on Ezra's patience. Nevertheless, he took a deep breath and decided to work with what he was given.

"You're quitting your job? Why? How come?" Ezra asked as he took Anthony by his upper arms and sat him down in his usual seat. "Wait, hold that thought. I'll make us each a hot cup of cocoa. That'll calm you right down." And with that, he hurried off to the kitchenette.

* * *

Crowley was grateful by the time Ezra returned with their cocoa. He took the steaming mug into his cold hands and took a careful sip. Adam, from his perch on the floor, looked up at the sweet concoction, stood up and pulled on Crowley's jacket. "Adam, no, it's too hot for you. I'll save the last bit for you when it cools down, okay?" And as if he somehow understood, Adam waddled off into the shop. "Thank you. It's great."

"It's no problem at all," Ezra smiled, leaning on the display table opposite the window seat. "So, what's this about resigning?"

Crowley looked down, eyes fixed firmly on the floor. His fingernails tapped nervously against the still hot ceramic mug — it had a quirky book quote on it that Crowley didn't recognize, as most of Ezra's mugs did — and he sighed in exasperation. "It's just…" He paused, trying to arrange the words in his head in a way that would make sense when he spoke them aloud. He sighed again for good measure. "They were right, angel, everyone said I would regret getting that job and I did. And it's not so much that I'm bored out of my mind half the time. No, it's because I'm dealing with the most insufferable people on the planet on a daily basis. It's that every time I set foot in the studio, Hastings and Liggett have new insults to throw at my head, not to mention Dygon in accounting. It's demeaning and I hate it." He bit on his lip, eyes darting around the shop, but always careful to avoid Ezra. "It's just, being out of the office and hanging out with you, it reminded me how good life was when I didn't dedicate it to people I hated, but to people I loved instead."

* * *

Ezra took a slow, shuddering breath. The look with which Anthony gazed up at him did things to his heart even he couldn't begin to describe, much less the Useless Lesbian™ narrator of this story. Nevertheless, words left his mouth.

"Well... I think that's a very healthy decision of you to make," he said softly. A nervous chuckle escaped him. "Though I rather hope I belong to the latter category."

He looked down, fidgeting with his fingers. He didn't dare look at Anthony, so he didn't notice how his face settled into a deep frown.

* * *

"Are you kidding me?" Crowley very nearly snapped. "Ezra…"

Ezra's gaze nervously wandered back to Crowley.

'_You're the love of my life,' _he really wanted to say.

"You're my best friend. Of course you do," he said instead, taking Ezra's free hand in his and squeezing reassuringly.

"Well, that's alright then," Ezra said, visibly relaxing. "So, this letter of resignation, what do you want it to say?"

"Something like, 'everyone in this office can go fuck themselves, except for you Lucy, you were the only tolerable part of this job.' Except still sounding somewhat professional."

A mischievous glint appeared in Ezra's eyes that Crowley hadn't seen in years. "I think that can be arranged."

* * *

XX March, 20XX

Dear Sir,

Hereby I submit my resignation from my position as assistant to miss Lucy Ferguson.

I sincerely thank you for employing me over the last few years, but due to circumstances in the office I can no longer fulfill my tasks with the same optimism with which I used to, and have decided to focus on my craft instead.

My final day of employment will be two weeks from now.

Unfortunately, due to pre-established activities by miss Ferguson herself, I will not be available to assist during this time of transition.

In case of an absolute emergency, miss Ferguson will know where to find me.

Sincerely,

Anthony James Crowley

* * *

"Hmmm…" Ezra hummed as he peered at his beige computer screen. It was eight PM. The two of them had settled in the dark back room of Ezra's shop where Adam slept on the worn velvet sofa. "It's not quite where I want it to be, but could you take a look anyway?"

The office chair creaked under the weight of Anthony's hands on the backrest as the man leaned over Ezra and peered over his shoulder. He smiled like a snake.

"Ezra, you beautiful bastard, I could kiss you right now!" he said in his enthusiasm. He blushed and looked away.

'Then why don't you?' Ezra wanted to ask.

"Well then, let's print it out, then you can deliver it on Monday," he said instead. Perforated paper was fed through a beige printer.

"Could you come with me?" Anthony asked. Eyes pleading. "I don't trust myself not to chicken out halfway through."

Ezra saw more truth in his eyes than the man would ever admit.

"Of course," he smiled.


	12. Day 9

It was three in the morning on Sunday and Adam was particularly fussy tonight. Crowley had gotten up to check up on him at midnight, one and two — crying, arms and legs flailing — and figured it wasn't worth it getting back into bed anymore until Adam was properly asleep again. As such, he was currently pacing around his flat, cradling the boy to his Queen + Adam Lambert Tour t-shirt. It seemed to calm him down.

"It's okay, Adam," he cooed at the baby, who seemed to have significantly calmed down now that he was being held. "We had a good thing going with you not crying so much and all, but I wouldn't want you to bottle it all up for my sake. Or you'll end up like me." He said as he stroked the soft hair on Adam's head.

The boy looked up at him and made a gurgling sound.

"I mean, I suppose me isn't a bad thing to be, I mean, I have a great family, a nice flat and a well-paying job — for the next two weeks at least — but I make things so difficult for myself. I don't want that for you."

Adam burped.

"Gesundheit. Anyway. Ground rules. New ones, at least. We," Crowley gestured between them with his free hand. "Are going to be honest to each other. No lies, no secrets. We'll always have someone to vent to. Alright?" Crowley looked down at the boy.

Big, shining, sky blue eyes stared up at him.

'_Adam, you're such a good listener,'_ Crowley was about to say when Adam reached for the easel across the room. He walked up to it. Adam reached for the jar of brushes on the side table next to it. "You want to paint at…" Crowley glanced at the clock on his phone. "Nine past three in the morning?"

As if he had somehow understood what Crowley had said, Adam nodded.

Crowley sighed. "Well, alright. We're both wide awake, I guess we'll paint until we're sleepy," he mumbled and sat down on the stool in front of the easel, squirted some paint onto the palette and took a brush from the jar. "Try not to get any paint in your hair this time, alright?"

He put the brush to the canvas and didn't stop until the sun rose.

* * *

It was well past noon when Crowley finally stumbled into the bookshop that Sunday. Adam happily clung to the lapels of his jacket, giggling, but he made sure to support him under his bum anyway.

Someone was better rested than him. But then again, _everyone _was better rested than him.

"Anthony?" Ezra asked, getting out from behind the counter, ran up to him. "Are you alright? Oh, and with the sunglasses again. My dear," he trailed off as he lifted the sunglasses off Crowley's nose. "Oh my goodness..."

"It's okay angel, you can just say what we're all thinking; 'Crowley, you look like complete and utter shit today'. Right, Adam?"

Adam giggled some more.

"I must admit, you do look a bit like a hairless panda bear," Ezra said as he tucked Crowley's sunglasses into the pocket of his vest. A careful thumb caressed his cheekbone just under the heavy bags under his eyes. Crowley involuntarily leaned into the touch. "But I'm sure there's a perfectly reasonable explanation."

"I was painting, actually, if that's reasonable enough an explanation for you. Adam kept me up all night, so I thought I might as well do something productive with my time. I was almost finished when he finally fell asleep, or so I thought, so I put in a few extra hours to make sure it was finished properly."

"Was it a good painting?"

"Exceptionally good."

"Then you'll forgive yourself soon enough," Ezra said, smiling as he patted Crowley's cheek. "I was hoping maybe later today we could go to an art gallery. But I understand if you'd rather go home to sleep."

It took Crowley a moment to process what the other man had said, lack of sleep and the gentle assault on his face considered, but eventually he got his mouth to work. "You and me? To an art gallery?"

"Well, yes," Ezra said, taking Adam out of Crowley's arms. "But I was rather hoping Adam could tag along as well."

Adam. He'd forgotten Adam. He'd forgotten Adam while he was holding Adam. He physically smacked himself in the face.

"My dear, when exactly did you go to bed?"

"Pfff, I don't know… Eight, nine o'clock, maybe?"Crowley admitted, cringing slightly. He hadn't pulled an all-nighter since art school. "Could have been half past nine..."

"Oh, Anthony…" Ezra mumbled. His face scrunched up in a worried pout that made Crowley's heart melt.

Crowley took Ezra's free hand in both of his. "I'm fine. I'll _be_ fine," he whispered, patting Ezra's hand reassuringly. "So, this gallery, where is it?"

* * *

This gallery just so happened to be in Mayfair, only a stone's throw away from Anthony's flat. Ezra hoped he wouldn't think it strange or creepy to take him somewhere literally so close to home, but Anthony didn't seem to mind. Ezra didn't really expect anything from the date. He wouldn't even call it a date if anyone asked. Just two old mates* looking at art on their free Sunday afternoon. With a baby.

_(*baggage included)_

Baby. Right. Apparently it was 'unusual' for visitors to bring children into the gallery. This not only reflected in the stares they got from their fellow visitors, but also in the abysmal stroller — and by extension, probably _wheelchair _— accessibility and the mild panic the boy behind the counter worked himself into as he tried to find out from his superiors whether or not they had reduced prices for children. They didn't. Ezra and Anthony split Adam's adult ticket, and Ezra took to carrying the boy the entire afternoon.

Anthony, meanwhile, was like a kid in a candy store. He practically dragged Ezra along the exhibit by his free hand. One second he would murmur unintelligibly to himself, the next he would explode in enthusiasm and talk animatedly, but still unintelligibly, to Ezra about the exhibits. About the colours the artists used and techniques and other words Ezra never quite caught. But still, Ezra smiled and nodded. It was good to see Anthony so in his element again.

It had been years since Ezra last saw him like this. It must have been… He thought hard on it. It must have been at his graduation. So happy and uninhibited, all smiles, arms flying everywhere. Until Anthony linked arms with him.

Oh.

* * *

"So, this painting you stayed up all night to finish, what was it of?" Ezra asked as he washed down his salmon nigiri with red wine.

"I didn't tell you?" Crowley asked, looking up from tending to Adam, who was performing a stellar drum solo with his chopsticks. He glared at the older couple that glared at them.

Ezra laid his hand on Crowley's, making his heart jump. Him touching Ezra was one thing. Ezra touching him still made his heart and mind run a mile a minute.

"My dear, let it go," he whispered. "They can't help they're snobs." he said in an attempt to calm Crowley down, but still, Ezra shot them a look that could kill as well. "And no, I'm afraid you haven't told me."

"It was you."

"Me?" he asked. There was wonder in his eyes and blood rushing to his face.

"Yeah," Crowley mumbled. "I found an old photo of us and I really liked the way it looked, so I figured I'd paint it. For practice." He dug for his phone in his jacket pocket and pulled up the photo he took of the painting, bathed in the orange light of the sunrise. He slid the phone across the table casually, but on the inside, he was freaking out.

Ezra's face grew soft and slightly more red upon seeing the image. "You're right, it _is _exceptionally good." He glanced up at Crowley. "I can barely believe it's me, Anthony, it's beautiful."

Crowley smiled. "If you say so. I think it can't even begin to compare to the real thing."


	13. Day 10

It was ten o'clock on Monday morning and Crowley was standing in his bathroom in his boxers and a well-worn A Day At The Races World Tour t-shirt*, his toothbrush dangling lazily from his mouth. He gently dried Adam's hair with a soft towel as the boy sat on the edge of the sink. Adam had seemed especially reluctant about bath time this morning. However, once his rubber duckie got involved, the boy was on top of the world and there had been no further complications. After all, getting dressed before putting a baby in the bath would be terribly inefficient, and Crowley was nothing if not efficient.

(*Note for observant readers who may be noticing a pattern by now: while t-shirts don't belong in the wardrobe of the epitome of fashion Crowley tries to be, he collects Queen tour t-shirts in his free time. His niece and sister frequently call him out on how weird it is that he wears his most prized collection to bed every night.)

"See? Sat wasn't so bad, was it?" Crowley slurred around his toothbrush as he finished drying Adam and putting him in a diaper. There was knocking at the door and Crowley's heart leapt. "That'll be Ezra," he mumbled, wrapping the towel around Adam, picking him up and spitting his toothbrush and adjacent toothpaste into the sink. "Wanna go see Ezra?" he asked Adam.

The boy's face lit up at the sound of the shopkeeper's name. Of course he wanted to go see Ezra. These last few days he must've come to associate that name with good food, stories, adventures and softness. What kind of child could object to that?

This was why Crowley enthusiastically strode towards his front door and opened it, completely forgoing the peephole or any other means of identification of his visitor… s…

"Crawly," croaked an unfortunately familiar voice.

Where Crowley previously felt his heart soar, he now felt it do a deep dive through five storeys worth of apartment building, the foundations below it, and several layers of the Earth's crust, and his blood ran awfully cold. The smell of, among other things, tobacco filled his nostrils. And where a week ago that exact smell would have been very enticing to him, it had now lost its charm altogether. "Hastings, Liggett. I didn't know creative made house calls nowadays. And… I have a phone, you know that."

"Enough with the pleasantries. Where were you last week?" Hastings demanded.

"You were supposed to pitch to the board of directors in Ferguson's absence," Liggett added, in case Crowley had forgotten. He hadn't.

The pitch had been on Wednesday and it was about an expansive direct marketing campaign that Hastings and Liggett had, to their credit, worked very hard on despite not really being 'of the time' anymore. And since the two combined had the charisma of approximately a single toad, Crowley had been selected by Lucy to pitch while she was away, as he was more on the level of a snake, to stick with the cold-blooded fauna motif. Once they caught him up to speed, he knew the presentation forwards and backwards and would be five steps ahead of each member of the board of directors and their hang ups at all times. The plan was foolproof.

This was before the babysitter had flown to Cambodia.

After the whole my-babysitter-ran-off-to-south-east-Asia-to-rediscover-herself-after-a-particularly-bad-breakup-so-I'm-giving-you-time-off-to-look-after-my-baby debacle, they needed a solution, which presented itself as the intern known as Newton Pulsifer. His presentation skills understandably lagged behind Crowley's and couldn't begin to catch up with Lucy's, but the main difference between interns, who are doing all this for the first time, and creatives who had been doing the same thing for thirty years and somehow still held their positions, was that you could still teach them a thing or two, and they would be eager to learn, too. So that fateful Friday afternoon, Lucy and Crowley had gone over the presentation with Newt for what felt like upwards of a hundred times. They gave him every note they had and hadn't stopped until both of them were confident that the boy could successfully run the pitch by the board.

So… Hastings and Liggett standing here, in the hallway of his apartment building, didn't bode well. And Crowley quickly figured it wouldn't be wise to tell them he spent that entire day reading Miffy books to Adam in his crush's bookshop. Instead, he told them, "Yeah, we told you I wouldn't be there because I'd be taking care of Adam. We told you Newton would cover for me, too. Hell, we even asked you if you'd rather present your pitch yourselves instead of having the intern do it. Whatever happened, it's out of my hands."

A frustrated grumble escaped Hasting's throat. "We thought you might say something like that," he said.

"Then why are you here?" Crowley asked.

"To take you back to the office with us, where you'll explain to the board exactly what went wrong. Now, put on some pants," Liggett commanded.

Crowley stepped back when a hand grabbed his arm. He shook himself free and Adam whined at the jostling. "I can't," Crowley insisted. "I won't. I have to look after Adam."

It was then, that Hastings stepped forward, glowering at Crowley and towering over him. Compared to Crowley who, himself, erred towards the taller side, Hastings was enormous. "I think you misunderstand, Crawly. We are your seniors. You are only an assistant and you will not disrespect us in this way."

The words oozed with venom and Crowley instinctively faced Adam away from them. It was bad enough that Lucy and Crowley had to deal with the pair of them on a regular basis. The less young Adam saw from them, the better, and the same went for Crowley, he reasoned. He took a deep breath and asked them with a boldness he had long forgotten he had, "And what have you lot ever done to earn my respect?"

"I suggest you choose your words wisely, Crawly," Hastings said as he bowed down over Crowley, only inches away from his face.

"It's Crowley," he asserted. "And why should I respect a pair of out-of-touch, middle-aged creatives who always pull rank because they clearly have nothing else going for them? Who terrorize interns and intimidate assistants by showing up at their fff— bloody houses to call them names and make them take responsibility for something that wasn't on them? Surely, I should be reporting you two to some kind of authority, but we all know that won't do anything, so how about I make this easier on all of us and just announce that I quit." He huffed, and without another thought he pushed the letter on the dresser by the door into their hands and promptly slammed his front door shut. That was about enough of them. "And newsflash, A-holes, unsolicited direct marketing** has barely worked on people under the age of thirty-five in, like, a decade, so your campaign was doomed to fail from the start. There's some free fucking advice for you."

(**read, the ones that get stuck in your spam filter and/or the ones that immediately go into the paper recycling.)

* * *

It wasn't even an hour later by the time Ezra came knocking on the door. Crowley had only just finished getting dressed and he wasn't proud of it; wearing the same t-shirt he slept in along with yesterday's jeans and jacket as he opened the door. Meanwhile, Ezra's outfit, worn as it was, was soft and pristine.

"Hey angel," Crowley said.

"Good morning," Ezra said softly, eyes flitting down to Crowley's outfit.

Meanwhile, Crowley felt like he might as well have been naked. He coughed, bringing Ezra back from whatever fantasy he'd found himself in.

"Run into any unsavory types on your way up?"

Ezra glanced around the hallway. "No. Was I supposed to?"

"No. Just… we don't have to deliver the letter. They came to pick it up."

"Came to pick it up?" Ezra frowned, almost protested as Crowley ushered him inside. "My dear, you look like you've seen a ghost."

"Poltergeist, more like. Two of them," Crowley said flippantly, but the hand he carded through his messy hair shook.

* * *

Now, Ezra wouldn't say he enjoyed seeing Anthony as shaken as he obviously was. In fact, he didn't enjoy that at all. The idea that two men from the office would come over to his home to intimidate him was appalling to him. It wasn't right.

But.

But there was something about seeing Anthony like this. Seeing him less put-together. It was endearing. It made him, for lack of a better word, relatable. After all, it was reassuring to know that even the most perfectly beautiful man who always dressed sharp and snazzy, could look like a mess. Specifically, a mess he wouldn't mind too much waking up to in the morning.

Ezra made a point of it not to stare at him too much.

"I'm sorry this happened, Anthony. I wish I'd come by sooner, I might have been able to— to—" Truthfully, he didn't know what he would have done. But he knew he would have done something. It wasn't right, coming to someone's house to tell them off for something they didn't do, and Ezra was nothing if not righteous.

"I appreciate the sentiment, Ezra, but I'm fine," Anthony sighed. "And so is Adam, I think."

"Did they…?" Ezra trailed off.

"Who? Adam? Didn't lay a finger on him. I'll give them that, at least."

"Then, did they…?"

Anthony shrugged. "Grabbed my arm, that's it."

That's it?

* * *

There was a fire in Ezra's eyes that Crowley hadn't seen before. He wasn't sure if he should be terrified or flattered.

"But even that is unacceptable!" Ezra said when he spoke again. "They still trespassed on your home, on the one place you're meant to feel safe, on you, and that should never have happened." He took Crowley's hand and looked at him with angry, watery eyes.

"I'm fine angel, I swear. Moreso now that my knight in shining armor is here." Crowley ran a hand through his hair in a way he hoped Ezra would experience as tenderly. Like in an out of body experience, he felt himself bend down to kiss him, but caught himself just as he realized what was happening.

That was, until he felt the lapels of of his jacket pull him downward and a pair of soft lips pressed against his own.

Oh.

* * *

"You care about me…" Anthony said a few hours later at brunch, as if the idea still felt alien inside his head.

Adam watched them from his high chair like a tennis match.

Ezra laid down his menu and tried not to sigh as he looked up at his friend. "Of course," he said. "One might go so far as to say that I quite fancy you."

This seemed to make Anthony choke on the breath he was taking. "Well yes, but since when?" he asked with an urgency there was really no need for. The wait staff had already picked up on the cues at their table and were avoiding it like the plague until the air around it cleared.

Now, if Ezra were about to admit his own superficiality, he would have said 'From the moment you set foot in the bookshop,' but he wasn't, so he didn't. Instead, he said "Ten years, give or take?" which meant pretty much the same thing and shrugged his shoulders.

"And it never occurred to you to tell me?"

"Did it to you?"

"Every day," Anthony squeaked. "For the last ten years and a few months."

Ezra blinked hard. The choice of words did not escape him. He wanted very much not to be so surprised, after all, Anathema had told him so outright, but to hear it from the man himself, the implication was all that was needed to send him reeling.

"Anathema told you, didn't she?" Anthony asked, finally breaking the silence.

Ezra nodded.

"She told me at dinner last Friday." Anthony let out a breathy laugh. "I swear, that girl is going to be the death of me."

"And me," Ezra said. Anthony smiled at him brilliantly and Ezra averted his gaze as a feeling of shame washed over him. "I'm sorry, by the way. About running out on you that night at that cafe."

"Angel, that was two years ago."

"I know! I just… we were both drunk, I didn't want you to get the wrong idea. I didn't want you to regret it."

Anthony choked on his orange juice and slammed the glass down on the table. "Regret it?! Are you joking? We could have been going out for years and you thought I would regret it?"

"Well, it was more like I didn't want you to think I was taking advantage of you."

"But… Ezra, I started it…" Anthony said, gesturing wildly.

"Well, you could have said something, too!"

A groan escaped Anthony, his face buried in his hands, fingers tangled in his hair. "In conclusion, we're both cowards and we've been miserable for much longer than strictly necessary?"

"Well, I wouldn't say miserable…"

"Okay, so maybe that was just me, but at least we both haven't been as happy as we could have been."

"I would agree with that…" Ezra mumbled. He glanced at the menu but he wasn't sure he was all that hungry anymore.

Anthony followed his gaze and smiled that snake-like smile of his, that only looked charming on him. "Go on," he said. "My treat."

That second, Ezra decided he was famished.

* * *

A weight had fallen from Crowley's shoulders. It had been replaced with the slightly less hefty weight of having to figure out their relationship anew, but it had to count for something. For these first few hours, Crowley found very little had changed between them at all. He still stole glances at Ezra as they ate. They still talked unreservedly and laughed at each other's jokes. They fed Adam who, at this point, was ravenous for everything his little fingers could grasp on to.

What Crowley also found, was the pleasant heft of a warm hand in his.


	14. Day 11 part 1

That Tuesday morning, Crowley really wished he'd woken up by golden rays of sunlight filtering through old, dusty windows, surrounded by the warm smell of old books and the even warmer presence of Ezra at his side. But alas, Crowley had a responsibility and no way to move Adam's travel bed to the bookshop, so they'd said — and kissed — their goodnights late the night before, and each gone home with a lighter heart and a spring in their step. And so he woke a tad colder and slightly more lonesome than he would have liked between his Egyptian cotton sheets to the sounds of Adam fussing. It was still an improvement to a few nights before.

And so he got up to feed Adam his breakfast.

* * *

Dunroamin Bakery & Patisserie smelled of butter and freshly baked goods. The fragrance met Crowley halfway around the block and if he hadn't already planned to swing by for a pastry or two, he sure did now.

Marjorie Potts, nicknamed Madame Tracy for reasons unknown to Crowley*, greeted him from behind the counter while Sgt. Seymour Shadwell** was scuttling about, preparing the cinnamon rolls. Crowley liked the older couple. Not just for their superb pastries, but for their story. Both widowed at sixty-five, they had found each other, fell in love, married and invested their life savings into opening a bakery to give them both something to keep busy. That was five years ago. Now, their little shop was a staple among London's top food bloggers, even if the two only knew them as their regulars and neither of them really knew what a blog was.

_(*Though, legend has it that she frequently earned some extra cash in uni by holding séances and reading people's fortunes and her stage name kind of stuck.)_

_(**Drillsergeant, retired, never deployed.)_

"Good morning, love. What can I get you? That caramel coffee again?" Madame Tracy asked, already reaching for the coffeemaker. Shadwell prattled behind her with a vague air of jealousy. The man should know by now that he didn't have anything to fear from Crowley, but Madame Tracy insists he does that with everyone she calls 'love'.

"Please," Crowley said with a sigh that sounded more tired than he had hoped.

"Little Adam keeping you up all night?" she asked, handing Adam a dry biscuit. He ate it gratefully.

"What? Adam? No, he's better than I could have ever expected." He carefully took the paper cup of coffee Madame Tracy handed him over the counter and took a sip. His jaws tensed from the sweetness. It was perfect.

"Is it about your crush in the bookshop, then? Giving you sleepless nights?"

Crowley's face broke out in a wide, snake-like smile. "Well…"

"Ooh, so it is," Madame Tracy cooed. Shadwell murmured something that sounded suspiciously like 'bleeding southern pansy'.

"He loves your chocolate croissants. Adam, too," he added. "We've… had something of a breakthrough."

"Have you, now?"

Crowley blushed. "He kissed me. Then we had brunch, and he held my hand the entire time..."

"But that's wonderful!"

"Oh, and I quit my job."

Madame Tracy paused. She had already been bagging the chocolate croissants. Even the sergeant turned around with a wide-eyed stare. "You _what_?"

"I was just so done with their bullying, so when they came to fetch me yesterday I just handed in my resignation, effective pretty much immediately."

"I didn't think you had it in you, lad," Shadwell remarked out loud for the first time that day.

"Frankly, neither did I," Crowley shrugged. "But I'm glad. I mean, I can finally focus on my art again. And I'll have plenty of time to spend with Ezra, until he gets sick of me."

"Of course he won't get sick of you, you old silly. But we're very happy for you, aren't we, sweetheart?" Madame Tracy said, turning to Shadwell and back to Crowley again as she handed him the bag of pastries. "You take this, love. On the house."

"I… uh, thank you. That's very sweet of you. Are you sure…?"

"Yes, we're sure. Your coffee, too. Now, go on and surprise that young man of yours while the croissants are still warm. Oh, and do give him our regards."

"I will," Crowley said, starting on his way to the door. "Thanks again, really. I mean it."

"We know, love," she said, and waved him goodbye.

"Honestly, I wouldna' have trusted that southern nancy boy to stand up for himself if someone held a gun on him. Lad might have a pair of stones on him after all," Shadwell told his wife when he must have thought Crowley was out of earshot.

Madame Tracy shushed him.

* * *

By the time Crowley arrived at the bookshop, Ezra's agent was there again. The bell over the door rang, but neither of them seemed to notice.

"Then it's decided. No book tour, but you'll sign a number of them in private. It's really the perfect compromise.

Ezra nodded. "I'm inclined to agree with you, Gabriel."

"Sounds like a lot of work," Crowley said as he walked up to them. "I could help out, you know," he suggested.

Ezra turned around and smiled at him. "Anthony!" he exclaimed. Crowley swore he was going in for a kiss, but he refrained from going through with it. Crowley blamed it on Gabriel. "How were you planning on helping out?"

Crowley smirked and shrugged. "Give me a year and I'll forge your signature flawlessly."

"Of course, you could." Gabriel rolled his eyes.

Ezra patted Crowley's shoulder, hand sliding down to rest at the small of his back. "Thank you for your offer, but I think my readers would prefer for it to be authentic."

Despite very nearly jumping out of his skin, Crowley simply shrugged, putting on an air of fake nonchalance. After all, there was a warm hand on the small of his back and that was not something he had anticipated for that morning. "If you say so. It's your wrist, angel."

Gabriel glanced at them in a way Crowley knew all too well, but quickly hid it with the empty smile the American seemed to wear so often and clapped his hands with a gaiety that was just as synthetic. "Well then, now that we've cleared that up, I'll leave you two to your brunch," he said gesturing at the bag of pastries under Crowley's arm. "But I do hope you'll feel more comfortable with public appearances in the future."

Ezra smiled softly, wrapping his arm around Crowley's waist. "Well, who knows what the future might bring. I'll see you around, then."

"Right," Gabriel said and turned on his heel, making for the door. "I'll see you around." And the door fell shut.

* * *

"Good morning, by the way, Anthony," Ezra said, unable to suppress the smile that fought its way to his face.

"I… Morning, angel," Anthony said, almost stammered, with a slight look of disbelief on his face.

Ezra tilted his head and looked up at Anthony. "Is something the matter?"

"You just…" Anthony tried and seemed to struggle to find the right words. "You just touched me, like that, in front of another man…" he nearly hissed, finally turning his surprise and panic outward.

Ezra, on the other hand, quirked an eyebrow. "Should I not have done that?"

"No. I mean, yes! I mean- I just didn't expect it, is all. I thought you were, you know, the slower type…"

"Oh, my dear Anthony..." Ezra smiled in genuine amusement as he removed Adam from Anthony's arm and carefully placed him on the floorboards of the shop before turning his attention back to the other man. "Anthony, I've wanted this, _you_, for so long now, I can't bring myself to hide or hold back now. Besides, Gabriel knows. He doesn't care that I'm the way I am. In fact, he encouraged me to confess to you. Sort of. He said watching my pining was painful, and he's put up with it for seven years."

"Ah, so with Gabe it's fine, but with, for example, your family…"

A chill ran down Ezra's spine. "Out of the question," he said firmly.

"Just checking," Anthony mumbled, putting down his coffee and the bag of pastries on the shop's counter before snaking his arms around Ezra. "I shouldn't have said that."

"I appreciate the effort, my dear, but there's nothing to check," Ezra whispered, returning the embrace and burying his nose deep into the scent of Anthony's cologne. It calmed his nerves ever so slightly. "They were abundantly clear when I was fourteen, and when my ex-wife and I divorced, and they would be if they could see us now. And the worst part is, they would do it with the best of intentions."

"You know what the road to Hell is paved with," Anthony whispered in Ezra's ear as he petted a hand through his hair.

"Reasons their youngest won't show up to birthdays and Christmas anymore, or even return their phone calls."

Anthony chortled, which made Ezra smile.

He pulled back from the embrace to give the man a better look. "Anthony James Crowley, I hereby swear on my life that you will never have to formally meet my family."

Anthony laughed and kissed him, as if it was the most normal thing in the world. "Ezra Zacharie Fell, I wish my mum was alive to meet you. She would have loved you more than I do," Anthony joked. "But for real, Angela and Anathema have pretty much already adopted you as their new brother-in-law slash uncle, so if you'd be up for it, once Adam is back with his mothers, you could join us for family dinner, this Friday night?"

"I would love to."

* * *

Ezra had decided quite early on that he liked Anthony's family. If only because they were so different from his own. They were just so… Ezra wished _informal_ wouldn't be the right word, but it was.

For starters, no one ever seemed to call anyone by their actual first names, unless for dramatic effect when someone was in trouble. But then again, Ezra wasn't under the impression that anyone ever got in trouble in their family in the first place. Mum and dad were just mum and dad, not mother and father. But none of that was even what Ezra liked best about them.

_'Angie? Hey, it's me…'_ he heard Anthony from his usual window seat.

No, what he liked best was that their bonds were based on mutual trust and respect. That Anthony got what he needed to flourish as himself in his home situation. When they had nothing else, they had trust and respect, and while Ezra had practically everything else, he never had that.

_'Yes, I know you're working, I'm sorry, but I just wanted to ask…'_

Had he been younger, he might have resented Anthony for that. For his freedom. For having experienced everything Ezra had missed. But by now, thirteen years after just letting himself be himself, he had done the catching up he needed. At least, he certainly hoped so. Although, having dinner with one's technically-in-laws was not something he had planned on doing by the end of this week.

'_Would you and Annie mind if I brought along a plus one? Yes, I know it's technically a plus two, shush...'_

Of course, he knew Anathema and he knew of Angela. They were exceptional human beings and ever so like Anthony. Some say hate breeds hate, but Ezra could now say with absolute certainty that love breeds love as well. But even that knowledge didn't stop his hands from shaking. He'd done the whole in-laws dance fifteen years earlier with Michaela and her parents. It had gone swimmingly then because he didn't have any, as they say, 'intentions' with their daughter. Just a nice, kind, if a but bookish kindergarten teacher. But with Anthony, he did. Very much so. He wanted to hold Anthony's hand, for example, and hug him and kiss him and cuddle him in bed on cold days and go for trips to the beach on warm days. But more than any of that, he wanted to love Anthony in the way he could never love anybody else.

_'So it's okay then? If he brings dessert? I'm sure that can be arranged.'_ Ezra became vaguely aware that Anthony was looking at him. _'Alright, Angie, you're the best. Thanks. See you on Friday.'_

* * *

"Dessert? _Me_?" Ezra cried.

"Well yeah, it's your favourite course, so I figured it would be perfect," Anthony stated matter-of-factly. Then his face paled and grew slack with panic. "Oh no, was that wrong? Should I not have said that?"

"It's just-" and Ezra felt his cheeks grow red. "Dessert is usually the most complicated course to make…" he sighed. "And I haven't cooked for myself. Ever. Apart from maybe eggs and bacon, cold sandwiches," he thought for another second "and instant pasta."

"Oh my God…" Anthony mumbled, rubbing his hands in his face. "I've known you for ten years, how did I not see this coming?"

"What do we do now?"

"Well, obviously, I'm going to teach you how to cook. Starting with dessert." Anthony smiled and patted Ezra's cheek. It didn't calm him down one bit. "Adam and I will leave a bit early today, since we'll have to get groceries. Dinner at mine, 7 PM, no excuses. I'll do the main course, then we'll make dessert together, alright?"

By the time Anthony's hands reached Ezra's own and clasped them firmly, he remembered how to breathe again.

"Alright."


	15. Day 11 part 2

Contrary to popular belief, Crowley _could _cook. It might help to understand this situation if you knew that Anthony J Crowley, aged thirty-two, PA to the head of marketing at a large multinational* and living in the very heart of London, used to cook for his entire dorm back in art school.

_(*except not quite anymore)_

Ten young men, nine of them without the basic cooking skills one would simply have picked up by watching their mum** cooking for them for long enough, in close quarters, making long hours in uni and with hardly a penny to spare, was an outbreak of scurvy waiting to happen. Crowley was not about to let that pass.

_(**or dad or other legal guardian)_

The arrangement had worked out well enough. He would cook enough for a small army every night, including enough leftovers to provide packed lunches the next day, and the others would do the dishes and, occasionally, let him copy their notes. At first, it had taken some serious maths and creativity to wrangle the family recipes into something that could be more or less mass-produced, and some serious convincing for the shop on the corner to let him buy his ingredients in bulk, but it had been smooth sailing from there.

Now that Crowley lived alone, however, he didn't cook for himself anymore. In fact, he was pretty sure he only cooked when it was his turn to cook for Angela and Anathema.

His appetite wasn't particularly large, and he'd never perfected the art of cooking for one. Besides, he could simply afford to at least order takeout whenever he got hungry. But now that he had Ezra… he could simply justify cooking again. In fact, there was beef wellington resting on the dinner table, along with roasted rosemary potatoes and various vegetables, to support that claim.

Crowley stared at the ingredients on his counter. Four eggs, a sack of sugar, a carton of heavy cream, a bar of dark chocolate, and a bottle of vanilla extract.

His mum never made chocolate mousse. As such, he didn't have any family recipe for it. He was about to blindly trust the judgment of a convicted American felon in his own damn kitchen – but what a way to go, he mused to himself. He wiped his hands on the checkered towel that was slung over his shoulder and went into the living room to check up on Adam once more.

Sleeping like a log. Crowley smiled and reached down to stroke his rosy little cheek. He hadn't expected to get this attached. He'd hoped he wouldn't, but he did. Handing him back to Lucy would break his heart.

A knock sounded at his door.

Crowley jumped up and sprinted towards the door, socks slipping across the smooth floor. He took a deep breath and opened it, draping himself against the doorframe very suavely but also not entirely unlike a melting chocolate santa claus.

At least he would have Ezra.

"Hello, angel."

"Hello, my dear," Ezra beamed. He gestured to a bottle of wine. "I hope this one will suit your tastes better than the last one."

"I'm sure it will." The bar was set low enough, after all. "Come on in," he said, stepping aside for Ezra.

"Oh my goodness," Ezra said as he stepped inside. "Anthony, my love, that smells marvellous."

'My love'. Crowley's knees almost buckled. "Well, you know, I try," he said as smoothly as he could muster. About as smooth as sandpaper, by anyone's best judgment.

Ezra only nodded and smiled. "Is Adam asleep, then?" he asked.

"I put him to bed just an hour ago, he's not likely to wake up until after we finish."

"Does that mean we can have some of this now?" Ezra asked, wiggling the wine bottle in his hands.

Crowley took the bottle, nodded and smoothed his hair back before pulling out a chair for Ezra. "That's exactly what that means. Here, take a seat."

"Don't mind if I do," Ezra said, smiling a fond smile as he sat down.

As Crowley walked to the other end of the table, he inspected the bottle more closely and found that, to his relief, it was one with a twist cap. A satisfying crackle sounded as he opened the bottle and was greeted by a waft of the wine's fragrance. Yes, this one would be much better, he thought to himself as he poured them each a generous glass. "Alright, so, I'm sure you're familiar with all of these; roasted veggies and potatoes and a beef wellington."

"Oh yes, I can't wait." Ezra rubbed his hands together as he glanced over the foods on the table – Crowley was even sure he spied a bit of tongue sticking out at the corner of his mouth.

It brought a smile to Crowley's face. "Well then, don't."

* * *

An entire dinner and half a bottle of wine between them later, Ezra found himself staring down at the ingredients on Anthony's counter. Eggs, sugar, cream, chocolate and a small bottle containing God knew what. They shouldn't intimidate him, but they did. What if he did something wrong? He'd make a fool of himself and a mess of Anthony's kitchen. How he regretted relying on his family's values for so long. Now he couldn't even make something as simple as dessert.

Anthony must have noticed something was off about him, as he soon felt a nudge against his arm. When he looked, Ezra found Crowley, holding out his spare apron and a kitchen towel to him – the man was already wearing his own. "Ezra, are you okay?"

"I– yes my dear, I'm fine," he said, forcing a smile.

"Did you catch anything of what I just said?" Anthony asked.

Ezra glanced down and shook his head. "I'm afraid not."

"It's okay. I know it can be a lot. Just put on your apron and put your towel over your shoulder– exactly, like that. You can use that to wipe your hands on when they get dirty or just feel, you know, icky."

Ezra nodded and did as he was told.

"Alright, first things first, we're going to separate our eggs. We'll need four, so I'll do two to show you how it's done, and then you can do the final two," Anthony said as he drew two bowls closer to them on the counter. "We'll only be using our yolks, so we'll use the large bowl for the egg whites and the shells so we can toss those out in one go. So, this will be our trash bowl, if you will."

Next, Anthony took an egg from the carton on the counter, he tapped it lightly against the sleek, black marble. He brought it over the bowl and slowly opened the shell. "Okay, so this is the difficult bit. Look very closely, okay? We'll just…" he trailed off. Ezra wasn't surprised in the slightest. What Anthony was doing now, no doubt took a lot of concentration, as he hot-potatoed the yolk from one half of the egg shell to the other, as lumps of egg white dripped into the large bowl below. When little more than the yolk remained, he gently dropped the jiggly orb into the smaller bowl beside it.

"See? It's a little hard to explain, but I hope I did okay," Anthony smiled nervously.

Ezra nodded. "You did marvellously."

"Great! So, I know cracking the shell on the counter can be a bit hard at first, and it's easier to determine where the crack will go if you do it on the edge of the bowl because it's a smaller surface, but it also increases the risk of breaking the yolk. So, if you do it that way, you'll have to be extra careful."

"I think you'll find that Careful is my middle name," Ezra huffed, adjusting his bow tie. It didn't need adjusting, but he liked the drama it added.

"Your middle name is Zacharie," Anthony laughed. He took another egg from the carton and gently tapped it against the edge of the bowl. It cracked exactly where he tapped it, but it also ran deeper than when he tapped it against the counter. Again, Anthony turned it over to completely open the egg and hot-potato the yolk from one half to the other, then once more deposited the yolk in the bowl.

"Don't you get smart with me," Ezra mock threatened.

"I wouldn't dare," Anthony smiled. "Well, your turn," he said, handing Ezra an egg before wiping the egg white from his hands on the towel over his shoulder.

"Okay, let's see…" Ezra mumbled as he tried to visualize everything Anthony just did. He tapped the egg against the edge of the bowl, turned it over and opened the shell– only to find mixed yolk and egg white dripping into the bowl below. "Shit," Ezra hissed.

Anthony's eyebrows seemed to rise off his forehead, but wisely, the man said nothing as he handed Ezra the next egg. "No harm done. Just be a little more gentle."

Ezra nodded as he tapped the egg against the edge of the bowl again. He turned the egg, opened the shell to find his yolk intact in the shell in his left hand.

"Right! Now just pour the egg white from the shell in your right hand– yes, exactly like that. Now, pour the yolk into the empty shell– very good, now empty your left shell– good, and put the yolk into the empty shell again– fantastic! Now you can put your yolk with the others."

Pride bubbled up in Ezra's chest. He did it! He successfully separated an egg! He had to be grinning like an idiot by now, but he didn't care. He did it. With a level of boldness he'd rarely expressed in someone else's house, he took another egg from the carton and repeated the process. Once there were four yolks in the small bowl, he hazarded a look at Anthony again, who beamed back at him with pride.

"See, angel? Nothing to it."

Ezra nodded in agreement. "Nothing to it. What's next?"

"Next, we make our custard," Anthony said as he fired up his ceramic cooktop to medium-low. Ezra could have sworn he'd seen the cooctop's manual lying around in the kitchen before they started cooking, but he quickly filed it away as Anthony picked up the carton of heavy cream and a set of measuring cups. "We'll need three quarters of a cup of this…" he mumbled as he poured the cream into the cup and then dove into his drawers for a saucepan, which he then placed on his cooktop. Without much ceremony, he poured the heavy cream into the saucepan, chased by two tablespoons of the sugar. "This next bit will be very tricky," he said, picking up the bowl with the egg yolks, pouring them into the saucepan a little more carefully. "Because, when making custard, you can't allow the mixture to boil, or it'll be… not custard." Anthony picked up a whisk from the rack by the cooktop and handed it to Ezra. "But the first bit is easy. Just whisk it to mix it. It'll need to warm up until it's thick enough to coat the back of a spoon."

Ezra nodded, nervously but excitedly took the whisk and carefully mixed the eggs, the cream and the sugar together. He wasn't sure the fact that Anthony had turned around to break up the bar of chocolate into little pieces made him more comfortable or less, but he supposed he liked to have some sort of faith put in him in the kitchen. Eza peered over the edge of the saucepan. The custard was beginning to thicken. He found himself smiling proudly again. He gave the custard another whisk, picked a wooden spoon off the rack by the cooktop and dragged the back of it across the surface of the custard. It dripped off in thick wads. "I think it's ready," Ezra said, taking the saucepan off the stove and showing it to Anthony.

Anthony turned and took a look. "I think so too," he said, laying a hand on Ezra's shoulder and patting it slightly. "On to the next step?"

"On to the next step."

Anthony stepped aside to reveal the chocolate sitting in a bowl, with a sieve hanging over it. "Alright, so you just pour it into the sieve that's meant to catch the lumps, if there are any, which I doubt."

Ezra poured the thick substance into the strainer and scraped the very last out of the saucepan with a wooden spoon. Meanwhile, the custard that dripped from the strainer was warming and melting the chocolate.

The few lumps that had formed, Anthony pushed through the sieve with the back of the spoon. "That's that," the man mumbled absently as he put the saucepan and the whisk into the sink. "We'll have to wait a few minutes until the chocolate is melted enough to mix it properly, so I'll clean these up real quick."

Ezra nodded, even as his fingers itched to help Anthony. Sure, he was here to learn, but washing up was something he knew how to do and he wasn't about to make Anthony do all the work. Instead, he settled for watching the chocolate melt at the excruciatingly slow pace that waiting brought with it.

"Eager to continue, huh?" Anthony asked from behind him. Ezra nearly jumped.

"Actually, I would much rather have helped you washing up," the older man said with what he was sure was a pout.

Anthony raised his hands in self-defense. "Will do. Promise," he said in an attempt to de-escalate, but Ezra nudged him in the arm, identifying his pout as a friendly gesture. "Well, that chocolate looks about melted," he said as he handed Ezra the wooden spoon again. "I'm sure you know what to do with this."

Ezra nodded and stirred the still warm custard and the chocolate together. "You know, if you told me we could just eat this for dessert, I would believe you," he said as he watched the dark brown liquid drip off his spoon.

"Well, you could," Anthony said, but judging by his face, there was a 'but' on the horizon. "But I'm sure it'll be much better once it's finished," he continued as he took the bowl and put it in the refrigerator to cool down.

"What do you mean, 'you're sure'? Haven't you made this before?"

An apologetic smile formed on Anthony's face. A half-hearted attempt at a shrug was made. Ezra knew all he needed to know.

"Well then, you'd better be right. Or you'll never hear the end of it," Ezra said matter-of-factly, but he was sure Anthony knew it was an empty threat.

"Just to start us off on more-or-less more equal ground. I didn't have any recipe for chocolate mousse, so I just looked it up on the internet."

"If you say so."

"And I say so," Anthony said as he dove into another drawer of his kitchen, re-emerging with a mixer in hand. He pulled another bowl closer to them and poured in the remaining one and a quarter cup of cream, followed by another two tablespoons of sugar. He plugged the mixer into the socket by the cooktop and handed it to Ezra. "Okay, so what you want to do, is start it off slowly–"

Ezra cursed his nervous thumbs. The mixer turned on at full force, splattering them and everything around them. Silently, Ezra was grateful for Anthony's minimalist approach to decoration, especially in his kitchen.

Anthoný's fingers flew around Ezra's hand and the mixer and quickly turned it off. Not too much cream had flown out of the bowl, but neither of their aprons covered enough of them to have protected their shirts and their faces from the barrage of white droplets. Ezra was nervous to look at Anthony, until he felt the man shaking against him. A second later, the sound of suppressed laughter filled his ears until the man leaned back and let out a loud, hearty laugh.

Ezra chortled as well. "I don't suppose _that's _why one wants to start the mixer off slowly?"

"That's exactly the reason," Anthony smiled as he wiped the cream of his perfect cheekbones with the towel on his shoulder. "May I?" he asked as he extended a hand towards Ezra, who gladly parted with the mixer. Anthony put it on its slowest setting and began to beat the cream again.

Ezra watched with wonder as the cream stiffened up under the ministrations of the mixer, which was gradually turned up higher as the cream grew more firm. "This looks so much better than the whipped cream you get from the cans at the supermarkets."

"It is, actually. D'you want to know how I know the cream is firm enough?"

Ezra was overcome with the sudden feeling that Anthony was about to do something extremely dumb, but in the kitchen, he trusted the man blindly, so against the feeling in his gut, he nodded.

Anthony responded to this by picking up the bowl, mixer not included, holding it over his head, and turning it upside down.

It stuck.

"You have no idea how relieved I am right now," Ezra said with a nervous chuckle.

"As am I," Anthony said, flipping the bowl upside up and putting it back down. "If that hadn't worked, I would have looked like a complete fool."

"Like we both do, right now?" Ezra suggested, wiping the specks of cream from his face and hair with his towel before reaching up to get the ones in Anthony's hair as well.

"Well, if you insist that we do," Anthony said with a smile. Ezra could swear he leaned into his touch ever so slightly. "Shall we finish up this mousse, though?"

"And finally have dessert? My pleasure."

"Solid reasoning." Anthony opened the fridge and brought out the chocolate custard, picking a rubber spatula from the rack by the stove which he handed to Ezra. "Alright then, I'll hold this bowl over the whipped cream, you scrape all of this into that bowl below and then I'll fold the cream and the custard into each other."

Now, emptying a bowl was something Ezra knew he could do. Confidently, he scraped the custard into the bowl before handing the spatula back to Anthony. "There we go."

"Thank you," Anthony said with a smile, and set to folding the mousse together.

Cooking was fun, Ezra realized. Not just to make something deliciously decadent, but also to help out Anthony and watch him work. Who knew the man with the small appetite was also arguably the most passionate about cooking. With the flick of his wrist – or three, or four – holding the spatula with long and slender fingers, Anthony expertly combined the two mixtures together into something Ezra was sure would melt on his tongue.

"According to the recipe," Anthony started, derailing Ezra's train of thought before it could go somewhere unsavoury, "we have to chill this first, and then bring it up to room temperature before we can try this. Now, I personally think that's a waste of time…" he trailed off.

"And I would be inclined to agree," Ezra said.

"Good!" Anthony said and bolted over to his cabinets and produced two stylish and spotless white, square plates. On both of them, he put a generous dollop of the chocolate mousse and sprinkled some shavings of the leftover chocolate over them. Before Ezra could do anything to them, Anthony brought them to the table, set one down at each of their seats and poured them both a new glass of wine.

Ezra was happy to take his place back at the table and picked up his dessert spoon almost immediately. "You know, I can't remember the last time I had this much fun in a kitchen. Actually, I've probably never had this much fun in a kitchen to begin with," he said, quickly taking a sip of his wine as he realized how that could be misconstrued.

Anthony seemed to ignore this and simply smiled. "I'm glad you had fun, then. Do you think you could do this again Friday? I mean, I can still help, if you want me to."

"You know, I actually think I could. But if you wouldn't mind keeping me company, I'd love to have you with me?"

"I wouldn't mind that at all, you know me. Eager."

"Well then, shall we taste-test the fruits of our labour?" Ezra suggested, scooping up some of the dessert on his spoon.

"Great idea," Anthony said, doing the same. "Three, two, one."

Ezra put the spoon in his mouth and watched as Anthony did the same. It was everything Ezra had hoped it to be. It was light and fluffy, but rich in flavour. The bitterness of the chocolate, offset by the sweetness of the custard and the cream. It practically melted away on his tongue. It was beautiful. But not as beautiful as the man sitting across from him. He felt himself lean over the table, felt his hand seeking a smooth chin, felt lips finding lips and tasted the same decadence in the other man's mouth.


	16. Day 12 part 1

**Warning:** this entire two-part chapter deals with the death of a direct family member. If that's not something you should be reading right now, feel free to skip over both chapter 16 and 17 of this fic. No hard feelings. I can't guarantee I won't reference this again later on, but it definitely won't be intense as these two chapters and I'll make sure to put a warning in the notes.

* * *

It must have been four in the morning when Crowley woke to the tinny staccato of a Nokia brick phone ringtone. A kiss was pressed to his temple. A soft _'I'll get it. You just dream about whatever you like best,'_ was whispered in his ear. A great warmth left his bed, and as soft footsteps padded to his nightstand and to the door of his bedroom, the intrusion faded until it suddenly ceased. And Crowley, well, Crowley did as he was told.

* * *

It had been eleven by the time Crowley tumbled out of bed and stumbled to the kitchen, only barely bothering to pick up his tacky, synthetic, black and red, floral print robe from the floor, not bothering to close it. He was about to turn on his coffeemaker when he noticed there was a warm pot of coffee sitting on the counter already. Not waking up alone seemed to have its perks already.

World's Best Uncle mug full of black coffee, he made his way to the kitchen table where, if it were up to him, he'd scroll through some social media feeds, check for messages*, drink some coffee, rinse and repeat.

(*there were never any.)

Except, on his kitchen table, Crowley found an open notebook and an uncapped fountain pen. One that he gave Ezra years ago, because it was small enough to fit inside his coat's inner pocket.

Now, Erzra Fell could be accused of many things, but messy as his bookshop may seem to the untrained eye, he never left anything out of place. Crowley could no longer contain his curiosity.

_'Dear mother,'_ the page in Ezra's notebook began and Crowley immediately knew he shouldn't read any further without the man's express permission.

Even glancing at the contents of Ezra's notebook felt like a betrayal of his trust. But the letter was long and the ink was smudged, both from a left hand dragging over still drying ink, and wet stains on the pages.

Crowley didn't need to be a detective to deduce that the sobs and whimpers coming from the living room weren't Adam.

Slowly, Crowley advanced to his living room. His phone and coffee were abandoned on the kitchen table. "Ezra?" he called. "Angel?"

An ugly sob sounded across the room, followed in close succession by a much younger cooing. So, Adam was awake too.

"Shit," Crowley swore he heard Ezra hiss.

As he poked his head around the door opening, Crowley found Ezra faced away from him, pacing around the living room, carrying Adam on one arm and desperately rubbing his sleeve across his face with the other.

"Ezra…" Crowley heard himself breathe. His legs moved of their own accord, his arms opened and soon enveloped the other man. His own vision grew blurry when he felt a sob rack through the other man's body. "I won't ask if you're okay, because I can see that you're not. I'll only ask what happened when and if you're ready to talk. But I'm here for you, alright?" Crowley said, pressing a kiss to the crown of Ezra's hair. His voice had sounded shakier than he'd hoped, but it needed to be said, dammit.

Ezra hugged Adam closer to his chest. The boy seemed to be enjoying himself just fine.

"I knew this was coming ever since I got word she was ill," Ezra mumbled. Crowley heard the lump in his throat and his heart ached on Ezra's behalf. "We hadn't spoken for a decade, and yet…"

"It hurts."

"It shouldn't."

"And yet it does. I'm sorry."

"It's not your fault, Anthony," Ezra sighed, finally relaxing in Crowley's embrace, leaning back against his chest. He sniffled again, dried his tears on his sleeve and turned to face Crowley. His complexion had paled and his eyes were red and puffy. "I hope you don't mind I've already fed Adam."

Crowley shook his head and leaned in to kiss Ezra's forehead, only for the man to recoil. Right. Too fast. It wasn't so surprising for the walls that had finally started to come down, went back up immediately. "I don't mind at all. How about breakfast? I've got eggs and bacon, I'll make us some toast-"

"I already ate," Ezra insisted. Crowley knew for a fact this was a lie; for one, there was no evidence in his kitchen that anything more than coffee and perhaps the aforementioned jar of baby food had been prepared and two, it was his own lie, the one he used when Ezra fussed over his minuscule appetite used right back in his face.

It didn't happen often that Crowley got a taste of his own medicine and he didn't particularly enjoy it. Especially where his angel was concerned. But what was he supposed to say? What was he supposed to _do_? Sure, they were out in the open, but they weren't yet out of the woods. He loved Ezra too much to risk a misstep and lose him again.

"Right. Of course. Is there anything else I can do for you?"

Ezra nervously shifted Adam in his hold. Crowley instinctively reached out to take Adam from him, but Ezra didn't budge. The boy shot a confused look between the two of them.

"There's one thing," Ezra mumbled. "But I can't possibly ask this from you, I've made you a promise."

Crowley, careful to not make any sudden movements, slowly reached up to stroke Ezra's cheek, but settled for laying his hand on the man's shoulder when he recoiled from that as well. "Try me," Crowley said. He wasn't the model of patience, but he sure could try to look like it. "Going back on a promise isn't the same as breaking it."

Ezra nodded slowly and took a deep, steadying breath. "There's a wake on Monday," he mumbled. "I won't ask you to talk to anyone. I won't even ask you to go in with me. All I'm asking is for you to be there when it's over."

A fond smile crept to Crowley's face. "Angel, I would do all of those things and more. All you have to do is ask. I'll be with you, Ezra. Every step of the way."

"In that case, there's one more thing I'd like to ask of you." Ezra glanced up at him shyly. "Julianne and Sandy, they asked me to…" Ezra gestured vaguely with his free hand, he blinked his tears away and his adam's apple bobbed. "Write the eulogy, essentially. And read it in front of a church full of people."

"I thought they didn't approve of your writing?"

"Unless it suits them, apparently," he sighed.

"Well, that's hardly fair."

"I'm inclined to agree with you. So, I've decided to write something they won't expect. The truth. _My _truth. They won't like it, I'm sure, but at least they would finally know."

Crowley's mind ground to a halt. Rarely had he seen his angel this fierce, especially on the subject of standing up for himself, but this might actually have consequences for him. He bit his lower lip and thought for a moment as his mind wandered back to the open notebook on his kitchen table.

"Angel, listen."

Ezra's gaze snapped up at him, still as fierce as before. Crowley had a feeling the man wasn't going to like what he was about to day, and he also felt like Ezra was acutely aware of that fact as well.

"I'm all for dramatics and for dropping truth bombs. Hell, any other context, I'd be cheering you on from the sidelines. And while I'm not saying you shouldn't burn all remaining bridges with your family if you feel like it, I _am_ saying that I'm concerned about your safety."

The man looked at him as though he was watching water burn.

"Ezra, that church will be full of grieving people, most of whom will have liked your mother in some capacity and even more of whom will share her medieval views on people like us. Especially your siblings. Write your feelings down, sure. Write them in the guestbook, go to a poetry slam night and recite them there for all I care. But please, for my wrinkles and grey hairs, don't read them in front of _that_ audience."

A deep sigh left Ezra and he firmly rubbed his creased forehead. "I suppose you're right. I just… I'm not sure what to do if not that."

"Well, you helped me write my letter of resignation. It's only fair if I help you with this."

* * *

Their entire morning was spent inside Crowley's flat. All of the curtains were drawn, as nobody felt particularly motivated to be faced with the happy, sunny world outside. Crowley and Ezra were sat at the kitchen table, with Adam in his high chair between them, snacking on a breadstick. Ezra, dressed in his button-up and slacks from the day before and hunched over the table, dictated to Crowley what he needed on paper; a mix of his own true feelings and what he knew everyone in that church wanted to hear about his mother. Dressed in nothing but a Sheer Heart Attack t-shirt, boxers and his floral robe, Crowley typed as fast as his slender fingers and the word processor on his laptop allowed him to.

To say it was a struggle for Crowley to write a loving eulogy for a woman whose love for her son was so conditional that they hadn't spoken in a decade and hadn't exactly been on speaking terms before. Meanwhile, Crowley himself had been in the position with his mother where he could be comfortable sharing anything and everything that plagued his mind without fear of retaliation or abandonment.

Crowley briefly wondered if Ezra resented him for this sense of freedom he never really got to experience, but he quickly pushed it to the back of his mind. How could he be this self centered? How could he make this all about himself? Ezra was the one suffering here.

He gazed towards the man next to him from the corner of his eye. Ezra looked tired and pale. There were dark circles under his eyes and even his usually curly hair seemed to have lost a great deal of its bounce.

"Angel," Crowley whispered. "I'm, uh, if you don't mind… I'm going to take Adam for a walk in a bit. Get him some fresh air. You don't have to, but I'd like for you to come with us. We could stop by a bakery, get those chocolate croissants you like so much."

Ezra, still hunched over, looking like an empty shell of himself, exhaled a long sigh. "I'm okay, dear."

Crowley pouted. "That's not what I asked," he mumbled. "And it's okay not to be okay. You know that, right?"

"Of course I know that!" Ezra snapped. "Why wouldn't I know that! Anthony, I'm fine!"

A sigh left Crowley. "Right. I'm going to put on some pants, shoes, and" he sniffed at himself, "and some deodorant. Tag along if you want to. Or don't, if you don't feel like it. I don't want to push any of your boundaries," he mumbled, pretending Ezra's outburst didn't happen. It was easier, after all. Ezra was always the calm and collected one of the two. Crowley largely preferred when he didn't have to be the dependable one. When he tried it, he usually turned out cold and a little hostile. Like now. At the love of his life, of all people.

He huffed, pushed up from his seat and slinked back to his bedroom, closing the door behind him.

* * *

Adam stared after Anthony as he left the small kitchen. How blissful must it be, to not have any idea of what was going on between the grownups that surrounded him right now? Or, well, grown_up_, rather, Ezra mused as he stroked the golden curls on Adam's head, causing the boy to focus his undivided attention on Ezra.

Ezra had fucked up, behaving like a petulant child. He didn't know what had come over him.

Well.

He did know.

He hadn't slept or eaten since he'd gotten up at four in the morning. Then there was the gnawing guilt of feeling a slight sense of relief, now that his mother had passed away.

Adam continued to stare up at Ezra in a way he imagined little crickets in top hats would.

Anthony didn't deserve Ezra behaving at him like this. He'd been nothing but supportive and helpful. He didn't push him, didn't confront him with more than he was ready for, he was concerned over his well being…

Ezra sighed. "I'd better go and apologize to Anthony," he mumbled as he got up from his seat and walked the longest ten steps of his life to Anthony's bedroom door. He raised his hand and knocked.

"I'll tag along with you, Anthony, if you'll have me. I think the fresh air and some chocolate croissants may do me some good. And I'm sorry I snapped at you. You didn't deserve it."

"You're damn right, I didn't," Anthony said from the other side of the door before it opened, revealing a fully dressed Anthony, be it in yesterday's clothes, with a waft of fresh deodorant coming off him. Ezra couldn't help but notice that the corners of his eyes were a little more wet than they were before he'd walked off.

A feeling of fondness tugged at Ezra's heart and a small smile tugged at his lips just before he pulled Anthony in for a hug. "Thank you for always respecting my boundaries, even if I might not always respect yours. I'll try to be better about it."

"'S okay, angel. I love you."

"I love you too, my dear.


	17. Day 12 part 2

"Well, well, if it isn't mr. Crowley. You're late, lad. Sleep in?"

Anthony smirked. Ezra hadn't objected to Anthony wearing his sunglasses for now. It was quite outside, after all and his eyes were still rather red and puffy. On the other hand, Ezra was less than charmed by the return of the fake bravado that came with them. "Oh, you know me, sergeant. Late nights, overnight guests, living the fast life." He took a quick glance around. "Where's the missus?"

"The bairn better not have heard any of whatever you did with your overnight guests, or you'll have me to answer to, son! And take those sunglasses off, you look like those damned mafia."

Ezra's first reaction was to firmly, but not painfully, elbow Anthony in the side. For what it was worth, he did take off his sunglasses. Ezra's second reaction was to shoot Anthony a scolding look and tell the man behind the counter, "What he means to say, is that he's later than you might have expected due to circumstances out of our collective control. And Adam slept very well, actually. Thank you for your concern."

"You must be his young man, then," the old man Anthony had addressed simply as 'sergeant' concluded. He extended a flour-dusted hand to Ezra and a dry biscuit to Adam, who vigorously chomped down on it. "Thomas Shadwell. The wife's at home. We're getting the WiFis installed for the grandkids."

Ezra smiled and shook his hand. "Ezra Fell. I run the bookshop a few streets away."

"Right. I've seen you around there before," mr. Shadwell said before his brow creased in deep thought. "Fell, huh? I know that name. Any relation to John Fell?"

Ezra turned to Anthony, who shrugged his shoulders, then back to mr. Shadwell. "Actually, yes. John Fell was my father."

Mr. Shadwell smiled. "Well, wouldya' look at that. He was in my class through all of primary school, and most of secondary school as well. He and his girlfriend, Delia. Very serious, the two of them. Even as children. But you seem like a free thinking young lad. Especially if you're consorting with the likes of…well, _him_."

"You know I can hear you, right?" Anthony remarked, but there was no bite to it. Ezra noticed the way Anthony was looking at him from the corner of his eye, gauging his reaction. Anthony took his hand in reassurance, making sure he was okay.

For the first time since that morning, Ezra found himself laughing. "I like to think that I am. Thank you, mr. Shadwell."

"How are they, nowadays?"

"Sergeant, you can't just—" Anthony started, but when Ezra squeezed his hand, he quieted down.

"It's alright, Anthony, dear," Ezra told him, but he could still feel Anthony's gaze burning holes in his shoulder and he could feel tears pricking behind his eyes. "I'm sorry mr. Shadwell, but I believe you misheard. My father passed away some years ago. As for my mother…" He took a deep, shaking breath and blinked the tears out of his eyes, but before he could continue, he was interrupted.

"Say no more," said mr. Shadwell. He waved towards a booth between the counter and the window. "You go on and take a seat. I'll be right with you with cocoa and those chocolate croissants you like so much. Private Crowley, make yourself useful and get the baby that high chair from the corner."

"Yessir!" Anthony said with a mock salute.

With not a second to spare for a single thought, Ezra was handed Adam as Antony turned on his heel and the older man disappeared in the direction of the espresso machine. He had no choice but to sit down in the booth that was pointed out to him. It wasn't long before Anthony returned with the high chair and took Adam back from him to place him in it. Ezra was still a bit dazed when Anthony came to sit down next to him, but one question burned on his tongue.

"Why did you bring me here?" Ezra asked quietly. "Did you know he knew my parents?" he hissed, but Anthony only raised his hands in self-defense.

"Scout's honor. I had no idea."

"Then why?" Ezra leveled a look at Anthony that made the man squirm in his seat.

"I don't know. I just… look, my mum was in school with madam Tracy— Marjorie. His wife, who runs this shop with him. They were best friends. I just come here because I felt at home here after she, that's to say my mum… _you know_. I was gonna come here even if you hadn't tagged along, but you did."

'_Of course,'_ Ezra thought. Despite being almost a decade younger, Anthony had been through all of this before five years ago. And if Ashtoreth and Marjorie were really as close as he thought, then visiting the bakery would be the next best thing to—

"Marvels of the universe," mr. Shadwell commented as he sat down at the table with them, placing a tray of baked sweets and three mugs of cocoa in front of them. "In my opinion at least. I'm a firm believer that things happen for a reason."

"Dunno, sarge. Sounds like a load of horseshit to me," Anthony said mopily and took a sip from his cocoa, gasping and hissing as he burned his tongue.

Mr. Shadwell laughed out loud and even Ezra cracked a smile. "Careful, my dear," he said before taking a sip on his own, finding the cocoa comfortably warm, but not enough to hurt. "Mr. Shadwell, I don't say this lightly, but I believe your cocoa might be the best I've ever had. Thank you so much. For everything."

"Don't mention it. Return customers get special privileges, even on their first visit."

Ezra nodded, smiling.

"So…" mr. Shadwell started again, unsure in his tone. "Your mother then, passed away recently, has she?"

Ezra nodded, frowning. He felt the lump in his throat steadily returning. "Just last night. I got the call at a quarter past three in the morning." He sniffled. "My siblings are taking care of everything. Making sure the wake is exactly the way she would have wanted it."

"Which leaves you to…?"

"Write the eulogy," Ezra stated simply. "But I try to look at it from the bright side, because that way, at least one of my qualities is being acknowledged in the family."

Mr. Shadwell nodded, peering into his own cocoa as if at the bottom of it lay the answer to life, the universe, everything, before looking back up at Ezra. "I'm sorry," he said. "You seem like a good lad to me, you don't deserve bein' treated like that."

Ezra nodded before rubbing a tear out of his eye. "I'm inclined to agree with you, mr. Shadwell."

"I'm not done yet, son." In an unexpected move, mr. Shadwell reached across the table and took Ezra's hands in his.

Ezra gasped. Even Anthony recoiled.

"I didn't used to be very good about this… _you know_. In fact, I'm still not very good about it - ever since I met madam Tracy, I've been getting better at it, though. I'm learning."

"Homosexuality, sergeant. You're allowed to say it," Anthony sassed. Ezra would have elbowed him in the side again if he could.

"I said, '_I'm learning'_," mr. Shadwell insisted.

Anthony raised his hands as a show of surrender.

"You know, you look about my son's age," mr. Shadwell continued. "He's a carpenter, that one. Give him wood and some nails and he can build anything. He's got a loving wife, excitable kids and most importantly, he's happy. And I'm so proud of him. Now look at yourself, Ezra. You're a writer, you create entire worlds just with words. You've got yourself a loving… _Crowley _and you have little Adam,"

'_For all of two days,'_ Ezra pointedly didn't say.

"And I would be so, so proud of you if you were my son. Because from what I've seen and heard, you two are happy as can be together. And… I know I'm not your father, much less your mother, but Marjorie always says that kind of thing can be just as meaningful coming from another parent and I'm so sure she would agree with me that I'm just gonna say that _we _are proud of you."

The bakery was quiet for a moment, save for the sounds Adam made while he ate his biscuits. Somehow, Ezra's heart felt lighter. He was beginning to see why Anthony felt so at home in this place and with these people.

"Angel?" Anthony said softly.

When Ezra turned towards him, he noticed with a start that Anthony was reaching for his face. A soft, gentle palm came to rest on his cheek as the pad of his thumb stroked at the bags under Ezra's eye. It came away wet. Had he been crying again?

"Ah… I'm sorry. Thank you, my dear. ("No big deal.") And thank you for your kind words as well, mr. Shadwell. But… we've only just met. Are you sure all of that was really... _appropriate _to say to someone who is practically a stranger to you."

Mr. Shadwell smiled a mischievous smile and patted Ezra's hands before letting them go. "Trust me, lad. The last ten days, Crowley here has been in and out of the shop, waxing poetic about his 'talented, genius forbidden love', this 'ethereal beauty', 'an angel with a heart of gold and a halo of enlightenment'. I guess you could say we were already warmed up to you."

Ezra glanced next to him. Anthony was starting to turn red at the ears. He smiled and took Anthony's hand. "Thank you. Both of you. I can't begin to tell you what this means to me."

* * *

They stayed like that for the entire afternoon. Talking about everything and nothing. Mr. Shadwell had scared away what few customers dared to cross the threshold of the bakery, and was about to do so again when an older lady walked in.

"I expected better from you than to turn away customers, mr. S," the woman said with a tinny voice and a smile on her face. "And I hope you didn't forget about date night."

A look of recognition flashed on Anthony's face and he turned in his seat to greet the woman. "Good to see you, madam Tracy. Got the WiFi installed alright?"

This madam Tracy was a charming woman, Ezra could tell. She was no younger than seventy-five, but she wore her wrinkles, as well as a brightly coloured paisley dress, with the grace and confidence of a queen and the energy she radiated was so powerful that a sun might as well have walked into the shop.

"I believe I did, Anthony," she said as she walked up to the table and greeted Adam with a gentle stroke over his golden curls. "Hello, little prince."

Anthony took a deep breath and turned to her again. "Madam Tracy, I'd like for you to meet Ezra. He's my, er," he hesitated, glancing at Ezra.

The realization hit Ezra like a brick to the face. The B-word. No one had said it. No one had made it, as it were, 'official'. It normally wasn't like Anthony to hesitate like this, but given the current situation, as well as a slew of previous situations*, Ezra understood he might still have some reservations.

_(*As detailed in Day 4.)_

Ezra laced his fingers with Anthony's in reassurance and spoke up. "I'm his boyfriend."

A sound left Anthony and his face reddened as madam Tracy clasped her hands together.

"Oh, it's a pleasure to meet you, dearie. I don't know why I expected you to be younger. Anthony has always had a thing for older men."

Anthony hid his face in his free hand. "Oh my God…"

"Marjorie," mr. Shadwell spoke up, turning to madam Tracy. "Ezra and Crowley here have had a pretty rough start to their day, what do you say we treat them to dinner?"

"Oh no—" Anthony started to protest.

"We couldn't," Ezra said, joining in.

"You can and you will," madam Tracy insisted.

Mr. Shadwell got up and gestured for Ezra and Anthony to do the same as madam Tracy lifted Adam from his chair. "Come on, lads. You heard the boss, up you get."

* * *

Now, Ezra had read before that family isn't necessarily the cards you're dealt at birth. It's also the choices you make along the way and the people you keep close to yourself. Ezra had never quite felt it before in the way he did tonight, sitting next to the man he loved most in the world and the child that had brought them together, and across from proud parents that weren't necessarily theirs, but were there anyway.

And even though he wasn't sure what tomorrow would bring, he knew there would be no more sadness today.


	18. Day 13

"You know," Crowley spoke almost intelligently from where he sat in the bookshop's window seat, watching Adam toddle around and explore the shop. "I think I'm going to miss having Adam around."

Ezra, seated at the till of his shop, didn't look up from his notebook as he made a few finishing touches to his mother's eulogy - no doubt adding an extra layer of subtext to allow him to say what he wanted to say and having the true meaning of it completely going over his audience's heads - as he said, "How come, my love?"

"Well, he did kind of bring us together. He's keeping me busy now that I'm not at the office. And I don't know about you, but I really enjoy taking care of him."

A hum of agreement came from behind the counter.

"It's almost a shame his mums are coming back home tomorrow."

The scritching sounds of a luxurious fountain pen dragging across paper that had filled the shop for hours suddenly ceased. "Tomorrow?" Ezra asked. "Has it really been two weeks already?"

Crowley reached behind his head to rub where the bump from that football had grown after the first day Adam had been in his care. It had completely shrunk away. "Doesn't feel like it," he mumbled. "But it also feels like it's been months, if you catch my drift."

Ezra nodded in agreement. "Do you have anything planned today? For him?"

"No. Why?" Crowley asked.

"Well, there aren't any points of tension between the three of us that need to be resolved are there?"

Crowley considered this for a second. "No?"

"And there's still a day left, correct?"

"Yes?"

Ezra chuckled. "I was just thinking, this is just like a book, waiting to go into its conclusion with no ongoing plot threads left. Perhaps the author had a certain number of chapters left, or maybe they were aiming for a certain word count and they're just stalling."

Crowley raised an eyebrow. "Your point, angel?"

"It's just bad planning from a storytelling point of view."

Oh, so that's how it was? Wishing they had spread their 'plot' evenly over the two weeks they had to look after Adam? Well, two could play that game. "Would you rather not have kissed me on Monday?"

"If I hadn't, you might have gotten a grand gesture tomorrow. You'll never know, now." Ezra winked and got up from his seat, advancing towards Crowley.

Crowley laughed, shaking his head, "I can't believe my life is a badly written romantic comedy."

"Actually, I believe there's a good plot for a book hiding somewhere in this situation. I can't promise I won't write it down," he said as he bent down to take Crowley's hands in his. "Albeit structured a little better."

Ezra's hands were plump and soft. Crowley couldn't help but squeeze back.

Then, Ezra threw his weight backwards, pulling Crowley out of his seat and into his arms.

Crowley practically melted into the embrace.

"Hm, doesn't really suit the 'Aziraphale' brand, does it? A rom com amid historical fiction. Or would you consider publishing under your own name?"

Ezra was quiet for a moment. He hid his face in Crowley's chest. Ezra's fists dug into the back of his jacket before releasing it almost instantly and Crowley was sure he had said the wrong thing until the man spoke again.

"You know, if you asked me a few days ago, I would have given you a definitive 'no'. In fact, I have, just a few days further back. Gabriel didn't like that too much… But now, I don't know. I feel more free right now than I've felt for as long as I can remember. I just might publish a book under my own name."

A feeling of pride swelled in Crowley. To see how far Ezra* had come in such a short amount of time was amazing to him. He spotted Adam only a few yards away from the two of them, trying to stand up by clinging to one of the displays but ultimately falling on his bum. And yet he tried again. "I still can't believe all of this happened just because Lucy asked me to look after her baby for two weeks."

_(*and to a certain degree, he himself.)_

"I can barely believe it myself. Every morning, just after I wake up, I check the entries in my journal just to make sure I didn't dream _all of it_."

Ezra always knew how to find Crowley's heartstrings and proceeded to play them like an angel would play harp.

"And then, when I read the entries of the previous days, I'm always happy to find I didn't dream _all _of it."

Or rather, proceeded to play them like Jimi Hendrix played his electric guitar that one time at the Monterey International Pop Festival 1967**.

_(**Where Hendrix notoriously lit his guitar on fire before smashing it in front of a live audience, earning him the title 'from rumour to legend'.)_

"Anthony, please tell me… If your boss hadn't given you her baby to look after, how long would it have taken you to get in touch with me?"

Crowley tore his eyes from Adam and looked into Ezra's. There was a look of despair, of sadness, of pain, but to his surprise he found no such thing as judgment. He wasn't sure what hurt him more. The look on Ezra's face or the answer he was after. He sighed.

"Truthfully? I'm afraid it would have taken a long time," Crowley admitted, feeling tears forming in his eyes. "Before, I had somehow convinced myself I had done something wrong and you hated me and there was nothing I could do to change it. I mean, of course now I know that wasn't true, and that you _somehow _fancy me as well, but at that moment, it was completely unthinkable to me. But then again, you could have called me, too."

Ezra smiled sadly and reached up to thumb Crowley's tears away. "Oh, my dearest Anthony, how could I _not _fancy you? But even so, I'm afraid I felt the same. I'm sorry I never said anything."

"I'm sorry, too," Crowley whispered to the man embracing him and leaned down to kiss him. "If I ask again why you insist on calling me 'Anthony', will you give me a straight answer for once?" he murmured into Ezra's ear.

"Perhaps," Ezra said simply. His face was still buried in Crowley's shoulder, but Crowley could hear the shit-eating grin that graced his features in his voice.

"Then please, enlighten me," Crowley said. He'd be damned if he asked Ezra outright.

"Saint Anthony is the patron saint of all lost things," Ezra stated, pulling back from the embrace to look up at Crowley. The smile on his face was shy, but so bright, Crowley could barely resist the temptation to put his sunglasses back on. Ezra bashfully looked away as he scratched behind his ear. "And we have been quite lost, I feel, to one another. So I suppose it summarized our situation quite well, because in the end we found our way back to each other.

Crowley couldn't stop the incredulous laugh that left him. "You're such a sap."

"I would hazard to guess that's precisely why you like me."

"And rightly so." Crowley was about to kiss Ezra again when Adam started wailing.

"Sounds like someone needs his nappy changed." Ezra reached into the diaper bag for a clean diaper and a pack of wet wipes and… handed them to Crowley. "I believe you were just saying how much you enjoy taking care of him."

"You're on thin ice, Ezra Fell."

"I love you too, Anthony Crowley."


End file.
